


Whereat the Two Swore On the Field of Death a Deathless Love

by horsecrazy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Jealous Arthur, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Oblivious Merlin, Once and Future King, Pining Arthur, Romance, Slash, True Love, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 131,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16112882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horsecrazy/pseuds/horsecrazy
Summary: In a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young boy. But not quite in the way you think. 'The Once and Future King'/Merlin mashup; now with 50% more gay.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! A couple of notes: since no one has ever managed to confirm for sure that Arthur of Camelot was a real person, all these stories remain legends, which means I can piece together whatever I like from the Medieval period. Also, as it says in the summary, this is a mash-up of TOAFK and Merlin, so there will be many references to both, and, in TOAFK at least, purposeful anachronisms were the name of the game. The original legends place him as reigning at some point in the 6th century; this is set quite a bit later, in accordance with TOAFK. 
> 
> There are many spellings of Igraine throughout the legends; I used Malory's original. Also, the quote which describes the Questing Beast is from 'Le Morte d'Arthur'. The title is taken from Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King'.
> 
> This was originally intended as a long oneshot, but I tend to get carried away, and I did so here. I didn't want to have to proofread a gigantic glob of text all at once, so this will be split into two or three parts. Probably three, on account of my aforementioned wordiness.
> 
> Also, while this is mostly chronological in terms of the show, I do bend things and switch some stuff around, and will continue to do so throughout the fic, so just FYI that some things do occur out of sequence. This is my first Merlin fic, so I hope I haven't bungled it too terribly. I've had a lot of fun working on it so far.

It befell in the time of Uther Pendragon that there was born a boy who would be called The Once and Future King, and a boy who would be called Emrys; but for the moment they were only called Arthur and Merlin, respectively. And the boy Arthur was sometimes called Wart, but not often, for Uther did not remember that a son can have many names of various affectionate origins, and a Prince may only have one.  

Now you may be thinking that the wizard Merlin was not begot in the time of Uther, because after all Merlin is a very old man, of the sort which a polite society calls ‘eccentric’ and a candid one ‘mad as a shithouse rat’, with rather a lot of beard and unfortunate hoarding practices so far as dead beasts are concerned.

But this is not the case. Arthur was given a tutor (a great many tutors, actually) as you remember, but it was a tutor who was not Merlin, because Merlin was still a boy in a small village called Ealdor making cracking good sport of his magic, as he was a child, and children do not yet know that Man is the only beast who has learned to fear what is innocent, and pervert it accordingly, and then, having quite thoroughly ruined it, kill it with the worst of their weapons, known even to this day as Justice. So he made rather a lot of cats levitate, and prided himself on a nuanced understanding of when to let loose the elders’ belt buckles when they most required their dignity and their trousers.

No, this Merlin is not old, nor does he announce himself as a wizard by spelling his name with a ‘y’ and going about in distinctly wizard-y robes with a layer of must from his Cottage of Oddities, because already at this point of the story magic has been outlawed; and so his mother forbid the robes, which was rather a great letdown for a boy who has come early to the understanding of how wonderfully authoritative it is to have something flapping after your heels in the rising morning.

But in the case of the boy who was sometimes called Wart (but only rarely, by a governess who may have muddled her astrolabe, but was otherwise lovely), it is true indeed that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were devoted to Court Hand and Summulae Logicales, and the remainder of the week to Organon, Repetition, and Astrology. This was in the mornings. In the afternoons, the schedule was thus: Mondays and Fridays, tilting and horsemanship; Tuesdays, hawking; Wednesdays; fencing; Thursdays, archery; Saturdays, the theory of chivalry, terminology of the chase and hunting etiquette.

You may have noticed that the boy who was sometimes called Wart (but whom we shall henceforth refer to as ‘Arthur’, for the sake of concision) had nothing so pedestrian as ‘play time’ or How To Win Friends and Influence the Castle Dogs (who we are sad to say liked him well enough, but were too caught up in their hunting pursuits to bond overly much with him) earmarked in this programme. This is because the good people of Camelot were not his friends, they were his subjects; they loved him for being handsome, and well turned-out, but it was more the way all humans love anything that is blonde and well-spoken: a brittle sort of love, with a lot of cracks in it. It would not pass muster in a kiln, where anything that is to be hardened in it must first be checked thoroughly for flaws, and accordingly accepted or discarded. When you do not check a human for his defects before updating your status to Besotted, he knows your love will not survive the things that life means for it to pass through, even when he is a boy.

A child, even one who has been raised in a gilded crib, with a servant never farther than his chubby arms breadth, does not really understand why a stranger would bow to him, when he has seen how other boys are treated; when other boys want a strawberry tart, they get their knuckles rapped and are sent to bed; and when he wants a strawberry tart, the cook sends out a scullion to pick strawberries from the densest bit of wood, where noseless Wat lurks in his skins, terrorizing hapless kitchen lads who after all never asked to work in a castle, with a little twat of a prince who wants strawberry tarts like clockwork after his hawking, and never shares them neither. But we hardly need to comprehend why to understand that we are Different. Some children will tell you that Different is bad, but only if they are obnoxious little beasts; and of course there were none of those about, or if there were, they certainly kept their tendencies to beastliness under rein in the presence of this boy whose father controlled their taxes.

And so having everything handed to him, and being constantly reminded of his beauty and wit, and many other nice things besides (we cannot itemize these compliments, firstly because it’s rather unnecessary, and secondly because the author has some need of time for those occasional fundamentals of life such as dinner and wanking), Arthur’s chivalry slunk out of the whole affair a bit withered, and his Nobility was perhaps a little soured, like milk gone off. But his heart was very large, and a heart can talk any of these attributes back to heel.

We must address another misunderstanding. It has been said by some that he had ‘fair hair and a stupid face’, but this is not true either. He was a towheaded boy, the way princes should be, with a great lot of eyes underneath his bangs which would have enslaved his mother, and occasionally prompted his father to smile, when he was not remembering that he must be hard on any boy, and harder still on a motherless one, who might whinge about how the other boys, even the poor ones, had mothers, and he had none. He grew into a towheaded youth, with the same great lot of eyes, and muscles beside. And when he was a man, the muscles (and other things) were bigger, and the eyes not quite so great, but they had a knowledge the maidservants (and some of the manservants) interpreted as they wished, though we must note (because he will imply otherwise) that the knowledge was not at all carnal in nature, unless you count a certain familiarity with his left hand which shall remain unmentioned, for the sake of the children.

So it must be understood that he was very handsome when the boy who would be called Emrys met him, because he comes off rather poorly in the whole thing, and the reader mustn’t judge the boy who would be called Emrys too harshly for noticing his...forearms. And anyway, the boy who would be called Emrys but at the time was merely Merlin liked girls awfully well, thanks muchly.

It must be supposed that the reader knows their journey was a Perilous and Fraught one, with many dangers, and pretty girls besides. So we shan’t linger on that. No one likes to be condescended to. No, the general outline of their story is very well-known indeed, and while there may be some confusion thanks to some surely well-intentioned mucking about in the history books, and at some point we must address that unpleasant bit about Arthur fucking his sister, what must be understood at the outset, for it’s not entirely proper, since doubtless you’re still rather stuck on the Merlin (that is Merlyn) which you have been led to believe was an old man with spiders in his beard and bird shit all over his shoulders, is that the boy who would be called The Once and Future King and the boy who would be called Emrys loved one another.

Unfortunately we must be explicit, if we wish to clear up this little misconception of the platonic tenderness between tutor and ward.

The boy we are henceforth calling Arthur and the boy we are henceforth calling Merlin (for that is what he will be for a very long time, and to a great many people) loved one another platonically, the way close mates are allowed, with long gazes, and a great many accidental hand grazes which were not accidental at all, if they thought about it; but they also loved one another in the biblical sense, though Arthur in particular, if you were to ask him, would scoff even at the first, and as proof of his indifference have an immediate go at Merlin’s intelligence, general hygiene, and effeminate thinness, in that precise order. And the reason for it was this: he did not know he loved Merlin, for a very long time. That is to say, he did not want to know it, because he knew people did not love him, but rather revered him, and that is not the same at all. We do not mean to excuse him; but princes cannot be lonely. They can be insufferable, because the populace expects that of rich men; but the populace does not want to know that his gold has not bought him content, and they do not want to know that his future crown is already too heavy, and no one has told him how better to distribute it.

Anyway, we have laid out the introduction and body, and now for the concluding paragraph: they were both acutely interested in fucking, and they were both acutely interested in the other never knowing it, and in fact they were both acutely interested in never knowing it themselves.

Doubtless you were told that it was Arthur who found his way to Merl(y)in in a forest clearing with a snug cottage and a well, but as you may have already guessed, this was not the case; it was Merlin who went to Arthur, and it was done like this:

Where Arthur never had any mother at all, Merlin had one who was a model for all the rest. She was called Hunith, and she loved her son, unashamedly; it is not particularly necessary to mention much else about her, as she is little present in this story, but it may help in the understanding of the Merlin who came to Camelot full of a lot of notions about humanity, and its loveliness. Arthur was not long in discovering these notions, and he was lenient on them, because we want to believe this sort of faith is naive, and must be killed, so that you are not a fool, which is much worse than being a tyrant; but it is not so: and Arthur, who could be quite wise when he was not preoccupied with the effect of his profile upon the visiting ladies and their heaving bosoms, understood this, and if he could not subscribe to it himself, he cherished it (secretly, snarkily, with a great many ‘what a big sodding _girl_ you are, Merlin’s to emphasize that he personally would never stand for any such thing) in his manservant.    

What happened was that while Hunith would have dearly loved to keep her son to herself, there will always come a time when our children have to leave us, particularly when they are magical children; because as we have already mentioned, magic was then illegal, and while levitating cats and bursting belt buckles are funny to a boy of eight (and even to one of eighteen), they are especially worrisome for a mother. She scolded him, some, while he was growing; but not overly much. Shame is a thing you must keep from your children as long as possible; it should never be the breast at which they nurse. But there is a point where coddling becomes dangerous, and Hunith’s light hand had brought them to this point: people were starting to notice.

So Merlin was packed off to a dear friend called Gaius, about whom not much is known; but we do know that when he stopped being the Court Sorcerer of Camelot (on account of the fact that he was not particularly inclined toward getting dead), he became the Court Physician of Camelot, and has evermore nursed all its various sniffles and contusions. It was to him Merlin was headed when he crested his final hill, and saw before him the citadel, nicely dressed with the sun, as though it had carefully puzzled over its morning finery just for this instant. As this was only the start of an Adventure, when everything is still good, and the world is especially pure, because it is full of promise, which can lean one way or another, Merlin was very pleased, and whistled to himself, and probably would have been smiled upon by everyone he passed, if he had come across anyone; but he had not yet reached the populated sections of the lower city, and was still alone in the heather, with the sweet air all about him. In future there will be another Adventure called the Great War, and a grand lot of boys will march off to it full of the airy dreams of youths who will never lose their bones somewhere in a hole of mud and blood, to age without them. And they will be similarly chuffed: you see, the beginning of any story, be it a life or legend, is never the part with the bad bits. That is for Later. Old men, and the wizened little ladies you see about sometimes, with the hair growing out of their chins--they have had Trials, and Tragedy, and they have lost things that are the very worst sorts of things to lose, because you can never get them back. But youths still have spring in them; they are full of all the green bits which were once thought to have taken their final drubbing from bitter December, and have come on again, despite. Young people always think they are going to come on again, despite.

It would be terrible to ruin this moment, and there is such a nice smile on his face. It will be the first thing Arthur notices, though he will not outwardly notice it, but rather inwardly, in the places his father taught him to ignore. So we will say nothing of how the boy who was called Merlin was still very young, hardly twenty, and did not comprehend that he was going to get all the not-so-nice bits of the story the same as he was going to have the lovely ones. If you were to, at the very Beginning, when the Adventure is itself young, and chaste with it, suddenly understand everything that was To Come, you would sit down right on your Path To Destiny (the very first bend, not the one you can see farther on, near the old oak), and cry. And as Merlin never had a father to tell him that crying is a thing to hide away in the same bits where Arthur would first notice Merlin’s smile, he was quite prone to all sorts of emotions, and would have sat down and had several of them; and that would have spoiled the mood.  

Instead he knew nothing whatsoever about any of the nasty turns which Fate would do him, but rather only that he was coming from a very small village and going to live in a grand castle with the king and his various bejewelled retinue. Now, the citadel of Camelot is not so very unique at all, and if you have seen one castle, it is safe to say you have pretty well seen them all, as murder holes and privies are quite a universal thing, since murder and shitting are quite a universal thing. But the sun had laid its holy touch on that day, and no cloud had come to mar it; there is a grand artistry in sunlight, which puts diamonds on the humblest of huts. It lay now in all the hollows of Camelot, and burst in the peasants’ mouths as Merlin made his way through the lower city toward the castle, so that Camelot seemed to him all radiance, though of course there were horse shit and rotten vegetables in the straw the same as anywhere else. Horse shit is not an auspicious start to an Adventure, so we tend to ignore it.

He entered the palace and, addressing himself to a guard, found his way to Gaius’ chambers with some dodging of maids and marveling over statues (he had never seen a statue before, unless you count the half-hearted whittlings of his friend Will), whereupon he proceeded to startle the poor man almost fatally, reveal his magic, and put his foot rightly in it in the denying of it, all within the span of perhaps thirty seconds.

“How is it you know magic?” Gaius demanded, and they ran through the entire line of inevitable questions and clumsy refutations till they at last arrived at a conclusion that satisfied them both, which was to say that Merlin explained that he really had no idea how he did any of it, rather it simply happened, and Gaius, who had not remembered his glasses, and could not read the letter Merlin tried to give him as justification for his intrusion, suddenly understood that it was Hunith’s boy who stood before him, and that he was not supposed to have arrived till Wednesday. In fact it _was_ Wednesday, but learned men are often not so particularly fussed about things like the concept of time, which is really nothing other than man’s hubris: when you have trapped something so ambiguous in your timepieces, it’s really a very convenient opportunity to puff up.

“You better put your bag in there,” Gaius said, not without kindness, and pointed Merlin to his own little room.

So that was how he came to Camelot, but this is still the gentle bit of the story, where the plot makes some stirrings, and seems inclined to do something, and hasn’t yet, not quite, being still in the process of feeling everything out. He still had a Destiny to encounter, in all its proper capital letters; but that would wait till morning.

  


Next morning Merlin began his apprenticeship with a sack full of bottles in which were brewed all sorts of concoctions he didn’t yet understand. “Hollyhock and Feverfew for Lady Percival, and this is for Sir Olwin. He’s as blind as a weevil, so warn him not to take it all at once,” Gaius told him, and then with judgemental eyebrows reiterated that the practice of any sorcery would see him executed immediately.

This may seem a bland start; but most beginnings are. And later there will come great tournaments, and lady’s favors, and even a dragon, so you needn’t worry for long. And of course, he wouldn’t have been sent out on such mundane errands if something were not preparing to occur, which it did as he was passing through the drawbridge gate and into the training grounds where sport was being made of a serving boy.

Merlin, as we have already said, was from a very small village, and in other times might have been called something like a bog jumper or a Culchie; he had no experience with serving boys or knights, and did not know how any of them were to behave. At first it seemed like play (and it was, for the knights, and the tall blonde man at their centre); the serving boy was carrying a target, and moving about shakily at the directions of the knights, carrying it this way and that, till one of the knights decided he ought to be taught a lesson, as most poor people should have in the presence of their financial betters. “Teach him a lesson. Go on, boy,” Knight #1 (who shall have no proper designation because he never is seen again, and also he’s a bit of a wanker) said, and the blonde boy said, “This’ll teach him.” The blonde boy was egged on by laughter too great for the occasion, but as you have already suspected, he was Arthur, and princes do not have to be funny at all to be handed an ovation, whereas you might stay up all night working on a bit, and be hissed off the stage.

Now the blonde boy who was Arthur began to hurl daggers at the target, whilst the serving boy yelped and leapt that way and this, and the knights howled and Arthur called out, “Don’t stop! Come on, run!”

As we have said, Merlin was not exactly overly familiar with the working relationship between knights and their servants, but the boy was clearly upset, and he did know that wouldn’t do.

He was still, however, in the first grips of his Adventure; and if some of the gloss had worn off, the entire affair was still overall scintillating, so that when the boy at last dropped the target, and it rolled across the cobblestones toward Merlin, making a great racket, he put his foot on top of it, and announced, with a perfectly genuine smile, “Hey, come on, that’s enough.”

The blonde boy (who in Merlin’s eyes of course would not have been a boy, but a man just the same as he, but, oh, _oh_ \--how very young they both were, in this moment) elected at last to notice him. “What?” he asked, without yet any warning in his voice.

“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”

It is necessary to describe to you what Arthur saw, so that later, when it is the part of the story that bears Poor Tidings, and many other ill things, you can understand why it is that he keeps a tally of all the days during which Merlin’s smile is a thing that’s missing from his life. We will not muddle about with the old cliches of smiles which light entire rooms, but only say that some people involve their lips when they smile, and others their entire being. It must be remembered that Arthur had spent his life surrounded by musty old men and their politics, that probably no one had ever loved him in a non-dutiful way, because there was some tie of blood or royal hierarchy that demanded it of them, and that we can therefore safely extrapolate that it may well have been his first time seeing such a smile. Merlin was a handsome lad (for a peasant, Arthur might have grudgingly admitted) regardless, with black hair, and sonnet blue eyes, though his ears did stick out a bit, and at some angles might have been dangerous in high winds; but then, at some angles, when he was laughing, Arthur looked a bit like a horse, which no one other than Merlin was allowed to tell him.

There was a moment where they were both smiling at one another, somewhat out of touch with the current mood. “Do I know you?” Arthur asked.

“Er, I’m Merlin.” (It was a good job he had the smile, as articulating properly in the matter of first impressions was not his strong suit.) He held out his hand, like a man who has lived all his life in a little village populated by geese and the requisite cow.

“So I don’t know you.”

“No.”

“Yet you called me…’friend’.”

“That was my mistake,” Merlin admitted. They were still smiling. It would probably have been embarrassingly obvious to someone of modern notions that they were flirting (though they themselves did not notice it), but the knights had little experience with the concept of men loving other men, outside the homosocial bonding of army campaigns, which no one talked about afterward, because you couldn’t exactly be held responsible for there being no women around, whilst sleeping on a cold ground to boot.  

This went on till Merlin admitted that he’d never had a friend who could be such an ass, and Arthur that he’d never had one who could be so stupid, and it progressed from that point to Merlin attempting a punch that would have been quite pathetic had he landed it, since he had never really punched anyone before; but of course he didn’t land it, on account of Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, so that the whole thing ended with a lesson about the unpleasant bits of Adventures where not everyone you meet is lovely, and might in fact be quite a prat. And this one was a noble prat (the noblest of them, in fact), which meant that he was going to jail.

We shall not linger on Gaius’ fatherly lecture, since it would be impossible for anyone to be pleased over the fact that they’d had an apprentice for a single day, and already that apprentice had shirked their chores by getting themselves imprisoned; therefore it would be quite condescending of us to explain that Gaius was upset. What is necessary to know is that in exchange for an early release, Merlin was to be put in the stocks, which was the kindest of medieval punishments. In those muddled middle parts of our history, there were all sorts of devices for the chastisement of sinners, blasphemers, and adulterers, and though Merlin was none of those, he had committed the indecency of poverty, and therefore anything whatsoever could be done to him. Now, since it is unknown precisely when Arthur of Camelot ruled, we cannot confirm for sure exactly which devices were on hand at the time; but if you have resided snugly beneath a rock, and it has passed your notice what horrors men do to one another, the following list may help you to picture how our ancestors comported themselves when the conundrum of how to level up their flogging was upon them. There was the Brazen Bull, the Scold’s Bridle, Rack, Chair of Torture, the Pear of Anguish, the Breast Ripper, and so on and so forth. These may not have all been available at the time of which we speak, but there have always been implements of the especial design to be inserted into unwilling flesh, and beasts to be made into the unwitting accomplices of quartering. It would be agreeable to tell ourselves that we have evolved as a race, and progress, in whipping on our science, our languages, our religions, has touched up our morals as well. But this is not the case. It is only that humans have discovered prettier words for their atrocities.

But there was something significant about the incident, and it was this: it was while Camelot was lobbing tomatoes into his face that he met Guinevere, whom you will recognize immediately, but not in this incarnation, for she is a lovely dark girl, and history and America have told us they ought not to be cast as the fair maiden.

This Guinevere was called Gwen, and had no guile in her; in fact she was a lovely thing, but in social situations was clumsy as a scullion who has been at the master’s good ale, and in the simple course of this introduction managed to imply a certain weediness and then in trying to correct stumbled over Arthur’s roughness, and his toughness, and quite thoroughly implied that Merlin was wonderfully brave in relation to his muscles (or lack thereof), but would not be riding off with his sword between his teeth anytime soon, and would have to stay home with the ladies.

But they parted as friends, which is all you need know for the moment.

  


There were a great many Events beside these, of course. But we have got to lay the foundation between our title characters, so that you may see why Fate had chosen them, even though it surely found them a bit wanting in the beginning, between the one’s skinniness, and the other’s prattishness.

It was in the lower town shortly after the stocks that Merlin once more encountered Arthur and his entourage. In the first encounter, Arthur had inquired whether or not Merlin knew how to walk on his knees, in the not remotely erotic sense, so you may disabuse yourself of any innuendo, since Arthur had not warmed to the smile immediately, and in fact had been thinking at that moment of bosoms. He said now, “How’s your knee-walking coming along?” and Merlin attempted to ignore him, as our mothers have all told us to deal with bullies. But as must be fairly self-explanatory, seeing as his first day in Camelot, he had carried out only ¾ of his errands because he had had his hands full quarreling with the prince and afterward touring the dungeons, Merlin was not a particularly obedient boy. He reiterated that Arthur was an ass, but was polite enough to acknowledge that he was a royal one. There was another exchange with no homoerotic undertones to it, during which Arthur said, “I could take you apart with one blow,” and Merlin responded, “I could take you apart with less than that.”

And it went on in that vein for some time, till at last the following had been established:

  * That Merlin had committed a grave error in so casually addressing a rich man
  * That Arthur was a prat
  * That they would need to enter combat over the matter, possibly to the death



“Come on, then. I warn you, I’ve been trained to kill since birth,” Arthur said, and this was true in the most literal of senses, as his mother Ygrayne died bringing him forth, and no one who loved her has ever quite forgiven him since.

There was then a lot of whipping about of maces, on Arthur’s part, a lot of dodging on Merlin’s, and eventually the realisation that if Arthur were so inclined (and he seemed to be so inclined), Merlin would die, possibly horribly. So because he didn’t want that to happen less than a week into his first Adventure, he ignored the little Gaius voice in the back of his head which kept reminding him of the dire consequences the use of any magic would invoke, and began to cheat. Which in all fairness we should not really call cheating, since when a man is trying to kill you, you ought to try and kill him right back, with whatever advantage you can press. In rapid succession, Arthur’s mace swings were frustrated by a lot of dangling hooks as they advanced into the marketplace, and then his shin barked by a box that suddenly sprang without so much as a thoughtful “On your left!” into his current murder trajectory. A rope tripped him of its own accord. Merlin asked him if he wanted to give up. (You can guess the answer.) There was afterward a convenient bucket for Arthur to trip over, and then: the sudden cusp of victory, which Merlin savored till the sight of Gaius disapproving at him from the crowd that had gathered distracted him long enough for Arthur to rise with a broom in his hand and beat the ever-loving piss out of him.

It would have been Merlin’s second arrest in as many days, if Arthur had not interfered on his behalf, because Merlin was certainly an idiot (we can hardly argue that at this particular moment, though we would like to), but a brave one, and a man who possesses equal parts stupidity and bravery is always in high demand by those who in future must lead an army of equal parts stupidity and bravery against its frothing foes.

Now, we must tidy up another matter before we explain how it was that Merlin and Arthur came to be so inseparable that in any iteration of their story, be it somewhat muddled in the details or no, one name is never mentioned without there being some awareness of the other’s presence lurking about somewhere, waiting for his own piece to be told. This was a very small thing, seemingly, in the beginning, and so we did not mention it; but we did promise you a dragon. There had been a certain interruption in Merlin’s sleep which might happen to any of us, for who knows what walks in such enchanted woodlands, where your unconscious mind may paint the sky in any palette it likes, and dress in glib mists the features of any you have so loved. The interruption was this: a voice had been calling his name in the night, a slithery sort of thing that did not seem exactly human, if Merlin were to think about it, which he did not want to do three hours before he was supposed to rise, and which he especially did not want to do at all, because it is hardly comforting that the disembodied voice in your head should in any way suggest that it doesn’t even share a species with you. But eventually the voice could not be denied, if he wanted to go back to sleep; and so that night he crept out of his room, and descended into the dungeons, where he was obliged to distract the guards by upsetting their dice; and from there, with nothing but a torch in his hand, he headed farther and farther down the tunnel stairway, into the bowels of the citadel, which could be, if we are enough pressed for time to be lazy with our description (we are not; we are simple lazy) summed up thusly: it was a cave. It was a very ordinary cave, in fact, if it is ordinary for caves to be found beneath castles, and if it is still ordinary if they are home to a talking dragon.

“Merlin!” the dragon called, and like a gobshite he turned about looking for the source of the voice. The dragon spiraled down to perch on a convenient rock, its chains jangling. “How small you are for such a great destiny.”

Merlin had never heard anything about any such destiny, and he was still rather put off by having been woken up three hours before his chores, and being now too awake to even bother going back to bed; as such, we are sorry to say he was not particularly receptive when the dragon explained to him that his magic had been given to him purposefully for the fulfilling of this Destiny, which involved Arthur, who as it turned out was The Once and Future King and would apparently go on to unite the land of Albion. This seemed quite impossible to Merlin, who explained that the dragon had the wrong Arthur, as this one was an idiot; and at any rate, whether or not it was the right Arthur, all and sundry were welcome to him, and terribly grieved to inform you that he would not be thwarting them, and in fact might be persuaded to help them. He was not interested in a Destiny--most especially, not any Destiny that involved the esteemed Prince Knob.

“Well, tough shit,” said the dragon, only a bit more politely, because he had a certain regal mien to maintain.  

And so the matter was closed.

  


Now, Uther had quite a lot of magical enemies, since people do not like to be banned, and it befell (again) that one such enemy had bamboozled their way into the court in the disguise of a lady who was actually welcome. She was to sing at a feast at which all the important personages (so far as this story is concerned, at least) were present, and at which Arthur made eyes at the King’s ward, who was called Morgana, but whom you know as Morgan le Fey (and who was in reality the relation of Arthur, not the Queen Morgause), so although we can assure you he did not accidentally fuck his sister, it is quite possible he _would_ have accidentally fucked his sister, given the chance. Which we cannot entirely condemn, since she had long black hair and perfect skin, and a lovely Dublin accent besides.

There were a great many servants running about depositing sugared almonds and butter and changing out the last courses with steaming pottages, roasted peacock, tench, and that amicable Wensleydale cheese which pairs so agreeably with anything that can be considered by sane men a companion to dairy products; and a lot of other fragrant treats unto infinity, it probably seemed to Merlin, who had attended as well. He exchanged overtly bitchy looks with Arthur, still smarting over his conversation with the dragon. But there was Gwen beside him, and that nearly made Arthur’s face bearable, though it would have been more bearable still if it weren’t poor etiquette for him to divest it of the smirk.

What happened was this: the woman sang. And the shadows lengthened and the people sagged in their chairs and slowly their lids drooped, and the cobwebs spun about them like the fogs of very early morning, when everything which has slept must live again, reluctantly. They were not all of them creamy, and golden-haired, but they slept like princesses nevertheless, all except Merlin, who had covered his ears, and left himself open to saving the prince from a dagger that would have pierced his heart if Merlin hadn’t forgotten to stand idly by, whistling with his hands in his pockets.

Uther was thrilled. While we shan’t excuse him, he did love his son, he just did not know how to reasonably show it, or how to calm his tits when he had gone off and shown it, and just let his son bask in the knowledge that his father loved him, which was a perfectly fine thing for children to understand, even when they were grown. So he thought the occasion called for something very special. Merlin did not want a reward, until Uther insisted; and then it would have been rude to refuse him. Besides, he had not yet had anything to eat, and he was hoping the reward might have been some bequeathing from the festivities, such as all of the fried fig pastries, which could be stored in his room, and drawn out for weeks.

“This merits something quite special,” Uther said, and Merlin scuffed his toe modestly, whilst Arthur practised the perfect amount of gratitude to bestow upon a peasant. “You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

And it befell that Merlin came to work in service to the prince, and Arthur stormed off in a fit of pique.

  


As you may well imagine, a lot of work goes into keeping a prince and his environs presentable. There was bed making, armor-polishing, floor-scrubbing; tapestry washing, cloak beating, belt mending; sword whetting, tunic mending, foot rubbing, and dinner fetching. There was also the general dusting, the airing of the rooms, and on Wednesdays the bed covers had to be boiled; there was the holding of the royal spoon, when the royal hand had to peruse pressing documents, and could not be bothered with basic motor skills. There were speech transcriptions, once Arthur discovered that Merlin was a literate unwashed mass; there was the drawing of the royal bath, which involved several trips to the well, and several more besides when Arthur was not satisfied with the clarity and temperature of his bathwater (he never was). On Tuesdays it was inescapably necessary for one’s manservant to aid in his master’s training by wobbling about disastrously with a shield, taking blows. On Thursdays he had to trail along at a deferential but useful distance while Arthur shot down whatever hapless game stumbled into his path, and then go about gathering the twitching little bodies into a sack. There was besides all this legging darning, and the sniffing of ceremonial tunics, to determine whether having been shut up for untold months had rendered them unfit for human companionship (it had); there was fire stoking, table repair, and helm polishing. Some of these were indeed routine duties; and some of them were merely because Arthur was a tosser.

In the beginning when it was a vast understatement to say that Arthur did not like Merlin, there was no spoon holding or foot rubbing or tapestry washing, and as training was his respite from his chambers where Merlin was always now puttering about, there was certainly no wobbling about disastrously with a shield. And then one morning when Merlin was adjusting his collar, Arthur asked, “How do I look?” just to make it necessary that Merlin should acknowledge he was splendidly blonde, and handsome, and dressed in a clean tunic that someone else had put on for him, while Merlin’s was patched, and dusty, and self-regulating. And Merlin said to him, neither missing a beat, nor leaving off the collar, “Like an immense plonker, my Lord.”

Of course the people were not allowed to address him this way; and they had never dared to. So it was with a strange feeling in his stomach that he absorbed the insult, and wondered if this might not be what it felt like when one had a friend, who could address him any way he pleased, and did not mind pointing out his flaws, because it was generally accepted that this friend had seen these flaws, and loved him anyway.  

Sometimes we do not know how to be a friend not because we are base, or wicked, but because someone well-meaning has tried to beat the inclination out of us, thinking that they know our paths, and the people who populate them, and they fear our soft hearts, and the wrongs they may do us when we love unabashedly. This is not to excuse Arthur, but only to try and understand him a little better, which is the most any of us can ask.

After this, the spoon holding was added, and the foot rubbing, and the shield-bearing; firstly because Merlin had committed the grave sin of forcing Arthur to like him (just a bit), which Arthur considered meritorious of punishment, and afterward because he wanted an excuse to have Merlin about as often as possible. He sacked Merlin once, owing to a misunderstanding over a man with an enchanted shield, and threatened it daily; but neither of them took this seriously, though Merlin really was quite a terrible servant, being clumsy, impertinent, and prone to making a total cock-up of his trouser mendings, so that Arthur eventually had to pass off even the most minor of needlework to the seamstress.

They quarrelled like a married couple that does not mean it, hurling a lot of silly insults (and boots) at one another that, like untrue shafts, quiver for a moment in the straw matting, and then fall away, if they have even found the target at all. They did not throw anything that would stick or fester.

Arthur was no less arrogant; but Merlin had now observed him in numerous interactions with the people of Camelot, who felt comfortable bringing to Arthur the petitions they dare not present to the king, and he would labor over the smallest of complaints till he found a satisfactory outcome, sometimes on the sly, because his father would not have approved; and it befell that sometimes when Merlin looked at Arthur now, he felt a swell of pride, the way one gets when their child has done something particularly admirable.

They could now be found most days on the training grounds with their heads together, bantering about the more odious of the nobleman which Arthur had no choice but to knight, whilst Merlin fiddled round his armor with such scrutiny to each strap that Gaius accused him of enjoying himself.

You may have heard from another Merlyn who was, if not exactly accurate, at least wise nonetheless, that the best thing for being sad is to learn. This is true. Arthur had learned it when he was a young boy who could not yet be taught the matters of state, and was therefore useless, and must be applied to his swordsmanship till he made something of himself. So it was that when he had been let down by someone he loved the way Uther had told him not to love, since it is only bound to end in disappointment, he could be found at table in his chambers, hunched over something he had taken out of the library. We must suppose that perhaps he thought he could read himself to someone more worthy; for an educated man is at least valuable, and that can sometimes be translated into something like affection, though it be an empty one, which dries up soon as the man has ceased to live for his adherents. It was on these evenings that Merlin knew to stoke the fire quietly, and turn back the skins on the bed, and keep Arthur’s flagon topped up, till Arthur had sighed and sat back and pressed his fingers to his temples. He would then put all the rawness of him into a confession he would only tell Merlin. He would not have called it this; he would have said it was only like talking to an empty room, since Merlin’s head had the same echoing quality. And then Merlin would say, “You’d know all about that echoing, wouldn’t you?” and bash the dinner plate with his elbow, and they would squabble, and it would end with Arthur putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, because he did not know how to say thank you.

But these were only moments that anyone might have when it had been suddenly found out that they were not so very different from an enemy after all.

They took Arthur’s favourite goshawk Cully out into the woods and spent a dismal evening trying to call him down out of a tree when he got it into his head to be ornery. Merlin was inclined to let the stupid bird be that way, and good riddance; but Arthur had made friends with all the castle animals in lieu of the lot of bum lickers who knew he was a prince and little else, and wouldn’t leave him, and overall was so despondent that Merlin prompted the bird down with a burst of magic when Arthur had ducked out to look for a long stick or anything else which might persuade a half-mad goshawk to come off it.

They began to get into larks, which bond any boys, even the grown ones.

Merlin had a separate chamber in Gaius’ rooms, as we have already mentioned, and on most nights slept there on his own pallet; but when Arthur was sick it was required that he drag his bed clothes into Arthur’s room and sleep on the floor, so that he could attend to the prince’s every feverish need, and stoke or damp the fire as his illness demanded. He spooned broth into his chapped mouth and smacked the pillows back to plumpness and sponged the sweat off his brow. He often caught whatever it was Arthur had got, and then Arthur had to contrive multiple reasons why he should be in and out of a sick manservant’s room, when a sick manservant was an unproductive one, and therefore beneath notice. He rode out early in the mornings to pick lavender to soothe Merlin’s sleep; but this was only, as he explained to Merlin, because his armor was in an even worse state than usual, which he had not thought possible, considering how poor was Merlin’s upkeep of it. And anyway, he couldn’t be expected to draw his _own_ baths, could he?

He left presents for Merlin which he denied; he hadn’t any earthly clue why it should be that books Merlin had exclaimed over in the market afterward mysteriously materialized on Gaius' worktable; he was prepared, graciously, to overlook how Merlin, who was paid room and board, might have got hold of these various trinkets.

Gaius had nursed the prince since his tragic beginnings, when Uther could not look at him, for there was much of Ygrayne in his brow; he knew there was kindness and sorrow in the boy, in at least equal measure. He knew the dragon had foretold a great Destiny and the boy Merlin who had become like a son, and the boy Arthur who had started like a son were bound for terrible things, because that is what a great Destiny really means. There is always a lot of bother about noble deeds and clamorous battles, and if one has not got through to the other side with all his bits, at least he has had a song or poem about him, and can consider it all worth the nuisance. But these boys would have to give up pieces of themselves, and that is by far a rougher parting than any sweet separation of new love. They would perhaps have to give up each other, which Gaius was beginning to understand (and they were not) would be worst of all.

But none of this had yet come to pass. In fact, we can say that though there were feasts, and tournaments, and the occasional embittered sorcerer/cess to try their hand at Arthur’s young life, their days were in fact mostly mundane. It did not seem that way to them, because if either were idle, or bored, he would seek out the other (with a proper excuse, of course) and take to the woods, or the stables, where Arthur tried unsuccessfully to improve Merlin’s abysmal horsemanship. These lessons were fruitless, but Arthur would discover in the giving of them that one could laugh themselves to sobbing, which he had never known before.

He took Merlin along on every hunt and patrol, though it was not quite the done thing. His knights learned not to question this, and to cover for Merlin’s lumbering attempts at sword fighting, so that bandits could not claim at least one pitiful victim, as it was by this time generally known that the prince would find it rather disappointing.

They passed a long winter together, when the old snows of England lay like a good cake frosting over the lands, entertaining themselves with games of chess at which Merlin found it necessary to cheat, so that Arthur had at least a taste of humbleness, which would have done him a world of good in larger doses, but those were rather harder to get down. He did it in precisely the way Gaius had warned him against, using his magic casually, first to bash about something deeper in Arthur’s chambers, so that Arthur whipped his head about, saying, “What was that?”, and then to move the pieces precisely where he wanted them, so that when Arthur turned back, he had suddenly a whole new board to contemplate, and one which was distinctly to Merlin’s advantage, at that. “Was the board always like this?” he asked, puckering up his brow.

“Yeah,” Merlin would always tell him, with just the right amount of disbelieving innocence in his voice. “Do you think I switched everything about in the few seconds you were looking away?” At which point Arthur would glare very steadily at him, not entirely convinced that this wasn’t _precisely_ what had happened (though of course he still did not know about the magic), because it was unthinkable that _Merlin_ of all people could be leading him in a game of strategy.

It could possibly be argued that they were only making the best of a poor situation, that if they were to be stuck together, they might as well feel out the tolerable bits of each other, so as to make their time some shade of bearable...if one were to entirely discount that Merlin had already risked his life three times for Arthur, though he only half-believed the dragon’s prophecy, and if one were besides that to ignore that Arthur had made himself very clever at discovering reasons as to why he should always be touching Merlin. There was always a necessity for tousling his hair, touching his shoulder, putting an arm round him, grinding the washing rag into his face, etc. He did not know that one could simply embrace someone for whatever reason he liked, because it is a human thing to touch and be touched. It is in fact one of the great tragedies of this story that he did not know it; for you can only imagine how often the boy who used to be called Wart must have had to learn and relearn this; love is always a thing that goes out like a lion.

Anyway, it could still possibly be argued, if one were deaf and blind. But the argument falls decisively to pieces when we point out that there were plural occasions on which Arthur and Merlin took poison for the other, which is hardly a thing one does for their casual Sunday mate.

The first incident involved the sorceress Nimueh, who used her sweet maiden’s face of soft and gentle bloom to convince Merlin he should accuse a visiting lord of treason. This went over exactly as well as you might think a servant brassly telling off a nobleman for poisoning the prince’s chalice might go over: that is to say, Arthur had to step in for him and reassure the King that Merlin was simply an idiot who had doubtless been dropped on his head at birth, with lingering consequences. Merlin insisted, because sometimes he could really be rather thick, and because it was Arthur’s life; and he couldn’t be dissuaded by minor things like the King’s displeasure.

There was one way to test the word of a servant against a nobleman, and that was to have the servant drink the alleged poison, so that at least there would be no loss if the servant’s word were true; the nobleman could then be justly executed, and the servant replaced, without any fuss. There were always gads of them running about, after all.

Poor Arthur we are sorry to say was quite terrified. Because Merlin was an idiot did not always mean he was _wrong_. “Merlin, apologise. This is a mistake. I’ll drink it,” he said, putting out his hand for the goblet.

Neither of them could take the risk that the other should drink it, and leave them. But Merlin was the one holding it, and so he tossed it back, quickly, before Arthur could overpower him and take it. There was a dramatic moment when all seemed well, and Arthur let out his breath and allowed his eyes to half-close.

And then Merlin collapsed.

The King ran for his sword; Arthur ran for Merlin.

It was a close thing. It befell that Arthur had to disobey his father, and embark on a Quest. The first was nearly impossible; the second merely a thing he expected to do, as a noble and handsome prince. But he was less afraid of losing his father’s regard than of losing Merlin; the first was quite a foregone conclusion, the second a thing he had never contemplated, though Merlin was mortal, and fallible, and all men must one day lay down their bones’ earthly woes.

It is not particularly necessary to state that he was successful; for he lived, and if he had failed, it would have been only because he had perished in the attempt.

The second incident involved the murder of a unicorn. Now, as you know, unicorns are pure and wondrous creatures, and this is why they seek out the snowy laps of maidens untouched to take their repast; no one wants to lay anything in the lap of some sweaty knight, chafing under his armor. And this was what Merlin saw during one of their usual hunts: a great glowing beast which might have been garbed in pearl, or those flowing cumulus layers of a day when God and Zephyros have conspired to usher in a spring without fault.

Arthur saw only a quarry.

He shot it down cleanly, so that it did not suffer; but he was not sorry to see the coat suddenly dim, and the eyes to frost. He saw the horn he could give his father as a token of his worthiness, so that Uther would know he had raised a fine and manly son.

Merlin did not have to be fine or manly, and held its face whilst he cried into the shimmering mane. “Why did you have to kill it?” he asked, because he had felt something tangible go out of the world when it died, and he did not understand how it should have been Arthur who did that.  

“Oh, relax, Merlin,” Arthur replied. “And mind your skirts.”

But it was Arthur who should have minded his skirts (we understand we have muddled the metaphor a bit, but bear with us anyway), for the unicorn’s death set into motion a curse that withered the fields and rotted the castle’s stores, and put Merlin off talking to him for a whole day.

Merlin was not gentle in telling Arthur that it was his hand which had now brought Camelot to ruin; but he nearly took it back when he saw Arthur’s face. Arthur was sometimes cruel, and dismissive; and he never shared his dessert with Merlin till Merlin had been made to carry out some ridiculous chore that kept him another two hours in Arthur’s chambers, shining the headboard of his bed or polishing up his boots with the linen he used to rub down his teeth. So he was certainly no innocent, especially as Merlin had gone through half a dozen of his tooth linens in this way. But he loved Camelot the way a knight loves a lady (if they are part of an epic, that is, and not a political match), and when he asked, “Do you really think I caused this curse?”, there was a catch in his voice that might have broken apart into tears, if Uther had not forbidden him to indulge in that sort of woman’s folly.

And so there was another Quest to lift the curse, and a labyrinth, and a choice. The choice was this: either he could drink to his country’s health, and his death, or Merlin could.

Arthur did not know much about death, having never tried it before, but he did know it was not worse than being alive in a world in which Merlin was not. Not that he had any special regard for Merlin, who was an idiot, mind you. It was only his great nobility of spirit that took down the poison without regrets, and it was only his great nobility of spirit that kept him from another comment about Merlin’s skirts when he came round some time later to find that after all the poison had been only a sleeping draught, and Merlin, not entirely convinced of this, was still mourning on his neck, like a big quivering girl.

“Merlin. Get the hell off me,” he said, so that there would be no misconceptions about his feelings on the subject of manservants embracing their masters. It was not the done thing, and anyway he was in full chain mail, with the sun beating full upon him, so if Merlin wanted to have hysterics, he ought to have the common decency to do it elsewhere, to someone in a light tunic, with the sea breeze deft in his hair.  

  


Between griffins, black knights, plagues, unicorns, bandits, and an assortment of more minor ailments, they passed their first year together. Merlin knew the date precisely, and had decided he would be nice to Arthur in honour of it. In order to do this, for one day only he would excise the following words from his vocabulary: prat, prig, prick, lout, dunderhead, clotpole, booby, knob, tit, dollophead, git, twat, wanker, muppet, Gael. He thought this quite generous of himself, since Arthur could be all of these, often simultaneously.

He threw open the windows of Arthur’s chamber and strewed about violets and cowslips with what he considered commendable virtuosity, beat the tournament dust from Arthur’s pillows, washed the cupboards, fixed the loose arm on Arthur’s chair, and when Arthur himself returned from a knighting, looked up with a smile from his floor-scrubbing. “Arthur!” he said, as if he were an unexpected delight. He did not comment on the fact that Arthur had just selfishly tracked mud through the last hour of his labours, showing no consideration for his poor beleaguered servant, as was his habit. He also did not make fun of the expression on Arthur’s face, which was rather stupid.

It was not stupid. Or, at least, it was not indicative of a lack of activity between his ears, for in fact it was all turning over quite rapidly; he was not gormless in that moment, but confused. He had in fact watched the date quite carefully, and knew to the day (and perhaps the hour; he had devoted a very stormy journal entry to it) when it was that Merlin had joined his service. Merlin was almost a friend, for a peasant. Arthur had therefore planned A Little Something, the details of which he needed to finalise, so that Merlin would think it all quite coincidental, because Camelot’s crown prince could hardly be expected to burn so much as a single candle down to the last of its wick, let alone three, breaking his head over an outing with the same nincompoop he was cursed to trail about for all his terrestrial days.

So it was not that he did not understand the smile, or the herbs, or the sloshing about of the soapy water, without so much as a tiny, kitten-sized mew of complaint, though Merlin had got the soap in his eyes twice, since Arthur had entered the room. It was that he knew precisely why Merlin had not snapped, “Oi! All over my clean floor, you plonker??” His birthdays Uther remembered, because they were to be feted, and it is always easy to remember an occasion for which the entire goal is to be irresponsible about your cake consumption. But there are always numerous other little achievements of a growing boy; to be born is not an achievement at all. His mother had done all the work for that, and finding it anticlimactic after such a lot of fuss, slipped away before he could be a disappointment to her as well. He had struck true his first quintain alone, though a whole cortege of nobles had applauded politely, and made him trite tribute. He had unseated his first opponent similarly, and commanded his first hawk, and recited his first Latin; he had been experiencing these things for the first time with all the joy of a child who has taken something new into himself, but they had only been things he was expected to do, the least he could achieve before the public, so that his father did not bear the humiliation of a weak and pitiful son, who could not out-joust a professional man twice his age and weight. He did not think it was the done thing, to mark little incidences like friendship. He had thought, not through any failing in Merlin, but through a failing in himself, that he would remark the day alone.

He will have his heart broken many times, Arthur Pendragon. But this was the first, and it was the cleanest break. Sometimes a heartbreak is only a little moulting, so that it may grow something fresher in the place where the old and dead bits of tired griefs have sloughed off their weary hurts.

He struggled for a moment. He was wrestling an Emotion (he was allowed only one at a time). He said to Merlin, “What in hell have you done here?”

“What?” Merlin asked, wilting.

“This is terrible. You’ve missed the entire corner, there.” He pointed to indicate it. “And you’ve left _boot prints_ all over the bits you did manage to not entirely muff up.”

“Those are _yours_ , Arthur Pendragon, you--”

“Well, come on,” Arthur interrupted him. “I’ll have to bring in someone else entirely to finish this. I’m sure the rest of the servants have nothing better to do than clean up after your rubbish attempts at competence.”

For a moment Merlin thought about striking dead (or at least severely poxed) the bit of him in which Arthur took the most pride. He was at least halfway through an incantation for itching when he realised he was to be let off, before he had completed his chores, and moreover, that Arthur had used his Merlin May Well Be an Idiot But He’s _My_ Idiot voice.

He smiled. Arthur did not; he made a fake stern face, which was abysmal. Merlin informed him he looked a right arse, forgetting his list (though to be fair he had not included ‘arse’ on it); Arthur put him under his arm, and dug his knuckles into Merlin’s scalp till he found a better description for the handsomest face in all the land. They made off with their usual horses, in the direction of a glade Arthur had discovered earlier, where the black alders slept like children, bestirred not by common winds, and the spring streams chattered their choral melancholy. Well, they did not make in that direction, mind you; it was only that Arthur’s horse had got its head away from him, and had a dash at the sweet clover where the alder’s shades had brought it shyly into bud. That had not happened in years, owing to his superior horsemanship; but we all have our off days, and the horse, naturally, had taken advantage of his.

It must next be understood that the provisions in his saddlebags were only the preparations of a seasoned huntsmen, who knew he could be caught out in any weather, and how terribly mortifying it would be to die for a lack of cheese. This was certainly not anything like a picnic. If he had saved some of the brie tarts cook had made (not at his special request, of course; there had been a banquet), that was not because Merlin loved them, but rather because Merlin loved them, and Arthur would have to hear about it for all his remaining days if he had not got any.

They flicked bread crumbs at one another and tried to duck one another in the stream whilst washing their hands and afterward laid side by side in the grass, their knees touching.

It is precisely beside a stream, with one’s belly full of good wine, and cheese, and the sweet scalding of gingered brie that secrets are divulged. The plants almost seemed to encourage it in all the whispered professions of their secret movements; and a horse’s lips are always sealed, unless he has been drinking.

Arthur had several. He told them to Merlin as they came to him. He was not sure he could lead the people. He did not believe his father was incontrovertible. Someday he would have to make great decisions, and as he was a man, and imperfect, he would sometimes choose incorrectly, and someone would have to lay their son into the arms of immortal earth.

It was assumed by Arthur that Merlin had no secrets; or if he had, they were the small discretions of flustered patients, who had come to him about a private genitalia matter. Of course this was not true; but he can be forgiven for assuming it. He did not know about the Destiny; he knew only that Merlin was a peasant who had had to worry about eating, and now he was a peasant who had to worry about his master’s orderliness. It might be that he had some sexual fancies that did not need to be aired, but he did not have the leisure hours for real secrets.

Merlin thought, with his knee touching Arthur’s, that he should tell him about the magic. He had thought this many times. He had sometimes not slept, for thinking about it. It felt small and ignoble, to lie here in the grass hearing all the things that people cannot give easily, because they have had to unearth it, and what a tender thing that is, to bring squirming into the light.

But perhaps we are all of us afraid deep down that we have given more than anyone can reciprocate. And worse than this: if he told Arthur, Arthur would then have to betray Merlin, or to betray Uther.

So he let Arthur undress the bits of himself that were most frail, and prone to ridicule; and he said nothing.

But there was an Event (there were several, of course, but this was a special one).

There came a warm day in deep summer when Hunith walked into Camelot with blackened face, and clung to her son, and cried, and told him she had come to beg the King’s mercy against merciless bandits.

No mere serving boy could broker an audience with the King; but Arthur arranged one immediately.

Uther did not hear her out unkindly; it would be too simple, and too dismissive of all the things in every man to pretend that he was broadly cruel, without nuance. There is neither hero nor villain who has everything of something, and nothing of anything else. But he could not risk his people for a village that was not under his fist; they would have to starve. So does a ruler thrown down his proclamation from indifferent Annwn.

Merlin afterward stood on the battlements with Arthur, who crossed his arms and looked out over his lands. “”I wish we could help everyone, regardless of how far they lived from Camelot,” he said quietly, with the sort of sincerity that kept Merlin from drowning him in his bathwater.

“I know you do,” Merlin said, and they had a moment of silent camaraderie. It could not last long, as the light was dying, and Ealdor a long ride. It was not at all disputed that he should unshoulder the yoke of his service, and return with his mother; Arthur was perfectly understanding, until it befell that Merlin suggested it might be forever. He looked at Merlin. He pursed his lips. He said, “Of course; I’d do the same.” He clapped Merlin on the back and informed him there never was a worst servant in all the lands, and wished him luck.

There had already formed in his head, before he had finished patting Merlin on the shoulder, the way mates do, the germ of a plan; it would hardly do to send _Merlin_ off to fight outlaws, even with the whole of Camelot’s arsenal at his disposal. It was certainly possible Arthur might carry it off, but Merlin could only be trusted to trip over his own sword, and render moot any murderous halberd. He did not yet know Merlin was not alone, being accompanied by Gwen and the ward Morgana, who owed him their own debts, and loved him besides; but Arthur would not have really counted them anyway, seeing as they were girls. (Though he would not have said this to Morgana.)

And so the sad contingent rode off to its inevitable doom, with Arthur following at a stealthy distance, once he had amassed his own supplies, and practised his princely apathy. (“Don’t be stupid, Merlin; I can hardly let some random bandit kill you when it’s my sole right, after everything I’ve had to endure” had been decided upon as his opening line.)

Despite his best efforts, it was apparent to everyone and their mum (well, Merlin’s mum) that Arthur was not after the glory of rich men and their conquests, and that while he might well have cared about the plight of a small village he had never known, he had a personal interest in the entire matter.

It was apparent to Merlin as well, who had long since accepted that they were friends who did all the normal dramatic sacrificial things for one another.

But not everyone is glad to see a prince; not everyone has lived under a good one, or known them as more than their gauntlet. We have mentioned him before, in connection with whittling; he was a man called Will, who had run with Merlin in his youth, and knew what Arthur did not.

“You’re his _servant_ , Merlin,” he said with special bitterness. “If you were anything else, you’d have told him what you are. But you didn’t, because he’s just another one of them, and you aren’t. And it will never matter what you’ve done for him, if you break his rules.” He was trying to be kind, in the way that harshness is sometimes the kindest turn we can do a friend.

Merlin did not want this to hurt him. It hurt him. It was one of the worst wounds which had yet been done to him. He let it fester, the way we do when a terrible fear has been suddenly and starkly called forth from our dreaming unconscious.

And so when the bandits came, as bandits do, and the villagers triumphed, all except Will, who perished of heroic second thoughts, Merlin let his dead friend take the blame for the sorcery which had dealt the finishing blow.

This was the first of many grievous errors he would make. He should have told Arthur, and let him hurt for a moment, so that later he could be saved. But he was young, and afraid, and he loved his master. And he would be punished most terribly for it, so we shall not be overly sanctimonious in our judgement of him, as if we have never let love stay our cowardly hand.

  


By this time, Arthur was accustomed to looking at Merlin in a way which a man on an internet program named after the _vinea aceae_ would call ‘heart eyes, mothafucka’. It would not have been called ‘heart eyes, mothafucka’ in the time of Uther Pendragon; this is just to give you the feel of it.

He was sometimes caught out by Merlin when Merlin was at his chores, and then Merlin, having only a general idea of what the look meant--and unconsciously at that--would smile back in his own soppy way (it is hard not to be charmed when a handsome prince puts the entirety of his good and noble soul into his eyes and thrusts it at you; in addition to that, if he was busy being smitten, he was not busy superciliously giving orders, and that made him almost bearable), and ask, “Is there something on my face?”

“Just your face, which is bad enough, I suppose.” Arthur returned to the paper on his writing desk; he had been doodling, but in a royal way, so that it would look official to Merlin. It was meant to be an official task anyway; it was an account of the royal stores, which he had been reviewing till Merlin had got fireplace soot on his cheek, and looked almost endearing, for Merlin.

They were not always busy longing at one another; sometimes they had to go to tournaments, and rescue maidens, and on Arthur’s part, sit in on council meetings with a lot of boring old lords who thought Brevity must have been quite the droning sod, if it were necessary for him to be brief in order for anyone to take him seriously.

There was another Quest, though that is perhaps not quite the correct word for it, since it came about quite accidentally, and there was nothing which really had to be found, aside from their dignity, which came to be in dire straits, and was much sought after.

In those days, before he had the far heavier mantle of King to bear, Arthur often treated himself to a hunt; there were in those barbaric days of clean sky, unshorn woods, and sparse development herds of harts, skulks of foxes, richesses of martens, bevies of roes, cetes of badgers, routs of wolves, and boars in the singular all running about in the undergrowth, getting at the berries and the species which had the ill fortune of finding themselves on a lower link of the food chain. The latter were Arthur’s favourite, being the most dangerous, and hunted on foot, like real men did, eye to eye with their foe, the spear braced in their callused hands, aught but steel and sinew engaged, and death mere feet from your tender mortality. The latter were Merlin’s least favourite, for the same reasons.

It was on one of these hunts that they encountered the Questing Beast.

The good King Pellinore had recently passed on owing to a fatal dehydration brought on by some copious weeping in a magical barge; but it was a lovelorn weeping, so please do not be too cruel. He may have been a bit soft for this world, but that is no reason to ridicule a man; in fact, it must have taken him a great deal of courage to weep so openly for his lost Piggy, with his fellow adventurers sitting all about him, trying to pretend they did not know him.

This left the Questing Beast to kick about the woods, eating travellers and trying out all the hobbies which do not require opposable thumbs--but as it turns out, most of the interesting ones require a certain pollical dexterity, to the misfortune of the travellers.

The Questing Beast had ‘in shape like a serpent’s head, and a body like a leopard, buttocked like a lion and footed like a hart; and in her body there was such a noise as it had been twenty couple of hounds questing, and such noise that beast made wheresoever she went’ (Geoffrey of Monmouth’s _Historia Regum Britanniae_ , page 56). You can then probably imagine why the half of the hunting party which was not Arthur or Merlin (who had a frustrating duty to throw himself into all sorts of peril, thanks to Arthur’s inability to ignore it) took one look at it, found suddenly that supper had not agreed with them, and ran away. Arthur was not accustomed to running away, but it did not take a second look to realise that his spear would not pierce a hide such as this, and he had a frustrating duty to avoid all sorts of peril, thanks to Merlin’s inability to endure it.

“Run!” he screamed, and turning about, he grabbed Merlin round the waist, gripped his coat at the shoulder, and pulled him along afterward.

Merlin fell. This was why Arthur had grabbed him by the shoulder in the first place. He stopped to help him, relinquishing the spear; he had his arms about Merlin’s waist now, and lifted him bodily, hearing the terrible bellowing behind them, and the strange shush of swift-pounded leaves; he did not have time to let Merlin fail at getting his legs underneath him.

“Arthur, go!” Merlin screamed, which was something he tried from time to time, when their demise was imminent, and which Arthur always ignored, assuming Merlin would someday be the death of him anyway, and if it was not one incident of incompetence which did him in, another would be along shortly, and he might as well meet it like a man.

“Get _up_ ,” he hissed in Merlin’s ear, wrestling him to his feet.

The Questing Beast assumed the striking position. These were not particularly challenging prey, but as she didn’t know about the rules of fair fighting, she was prepared to eat them nevertheless. She thought they might be engaged in some sort of human mating ritual; she had been alone so long she did not remember how her own species mashed the fat, but she thought there had been a lot of similar thrashing about. She thought perhaps she ought to let alone whichever would lay the eggs, so she could afterward enjoy a little treat.

She opened her mouth to eat the larger one, who seemed to be the more aggressively protective of the two, and was therefore probably the male. She looked him full in the face. She stopped.

Arthur still had his arms round Merlin, and had thought to thrust him backward, so there was at least himself between Merlin and the beast; and then he had frozen, as one does in full view of a serpent coiled to strike, which will start at any small twitch.

The Questing Beast was looking at Arthur the way Arthur looked at Merlin. Arthur and Merlin both recognised the look, though they could not place where they had seen it, and for Arthur it was only a vague sensation of having felt what was in the Questing Beast’s slitted yellow eyes, and sometimes nearly smothered for it.

The Questing Beast sat back on her haunches, and then laid down with her front legs primly beneath her. If she had had a chin, or hands, she would have cupped the one becomingly in the other, and batted her eyes, so that Arthur would know she was opening negotiations for his heart, and had already gifted him hers. She was at least able to bat her eyes, and then Arthur knew for certain why he had not been eaten: it was the exact look of the marriage prospects Uther occasionally shipped in from distant lands, to try their hands at fair Pendragon the younger.

Merlin made a choking sound. “Arthur...is it flirting with you?”

“Shut _up_ , Merlin. Back up slowly.”

“Oh, no. I’m not sure I want to miss this.”

Arthur grabbed his shoulder again, more roughly this time. He jerked the fabric of his coat so that Merlin had to rise onto his tiptoes, pulling him backward, carefully, one measured pace at a time, so he could gauge the beast’s reactions and whether it intended to go on smoldering at him, or had decided he was not so dishy after all.

They walked in this way till the beast was out of sight, and then Arthur, with the grip he still had on Merlin’s coat, jerked him about-face, so that they could finish the journey to Camelot without blundering into anymore trees (Merlin had walked into three).

“I can’t believe you just _dazzled_ that thing into submission.”

“Merlin, shut up. And not a word of this to anyone, or I’ll have you beheaded.”

“Of course. No problem. I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lord.” He pressed his lips together. “Don’t you think it’s all a bit unchivalrous, though? Just leaving your girlfriend out in the woods like this--you know there are loads of dangerous things out here. I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself--”

“Mer- _lin_.”

“You know, I wonder why she took to you? I mean, there is a certain similarity between that beast, and what you look like first thing in the morning, I have to say, so maybe she thought--ow!”

Arthur smacked the back of Merlin’s head again, for good measure.

  


Next morning, Merlin woke to the bells heralding an intruder.

He stumbled into Arthur’s chambers, rubbing his eyes. “What’s happening? Is it--” he stopped, seeing Arthur’s face. It was thunderous. “What?”

Arthur moved his jaw round.

Merlin decided he could be like that, and moved to open the window.

A beady eye stared back at him; he screamed, in a manful way, and stumbled backward, tripping over Arthur’s favourite chair. He took a moment to process the situation; he sat down in the chair so he would be supported in his time of need, and laughed till he had to abandon the chair altogether, and lie down on the cool floor, holding his stomach.

“It isn’t _funny_ , Merlin!” Arthur hissed. “She’s eaten three of the guard. No one can set foot outside! She’s nesting--or whatever it is she does--in the lower town.”

“Well, that’s not so good, then,” Merlin said, wiping his eyes. “What are we going to do?”

“We’ve got to draw her out somehow.”

“You could offer yourself to her. You know, with a little...bow…” he trailed off, sensing he was very close to death.

“We need to trick her. What if one of her own kind were to show up?” Arthur suggested.

“We don’t have one of her own kind. I don’t think there _is_ another of her own kind.”

Arthur looked at him with a particular gleam in his eye; Merlin did not like the gleam. He swung his feet down from the chair, where they had stayed as he’d melted down off it to sob into the floor. “I don’t like that look. That’s a ‘Merlin I have a plan and you’re the plan’ look.”

  


Merlin was the plan.

He was the very foundation of it, in fact.

Arthur could not simply stride into the lower town and take the beast tenderly by her hoof, and lead her away into the sunset with the people looking on, expecting great bloody deeds of him. Camelot was not in so very imminent danger at the moment; everyone had been confined to the castle while the Questing Beast paced outside, calling for her love. They had time for a Plot.

“We’ll dress you up as another Questing Beast, and you can lure her away from Camelot.”

“What if she notices I’m not an actual Questing Beast and eats me?”

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. “We all have to take our chances in life.”

It was decided, because Arthur had decided it, and he was the prince. Merlin did not like this logic, but could not argue with it, since Arthur was strong enough to push him out the window.

Since Arthur had sworn Merlin to secrecy on pain of very excruciating death, and since there was hardly a Questing Beast ensemble lurking beneath Arthur’s bed, waiting for a gala, Merlin had to sneak into the seamstresses’ quarters for supplies, and came back with his arms full of linen scraps and some old leather boots which he thought could be the hooves. He clipped some of the links from Arthur’s mail--at great protest from Arthur--to go over the hood he would need to fashion, so that it might glimmer something like snake scales, in the sun, and if any onlookers were mostly blind, and all stupid.

He cut and stitched and pounded ineffectually with the butt of Arthur’s sword.

As we have already said, Merlin was all thumbs with a needle and thread; he was not particularly adept with a sword either, especially when he was trying to use it as a hammer, and the sword did not want to be used as a hammer, and Arthur especially did not want it to be used as a hammer.

The final result was something like a pair of onesie pajamas. There was a hood to be pulled over the human head, with a row of mail messily stitched in one straggling row, so it looked rather as if the hood were cultivating a mohawk, which was not at all the style in that time. Merlin had used the tongue from one of Arthur’s boots (Arthur did not yet know about it) for the serpent’s tongue; this hung down wretchedly from the general maw area, and smelt of Arthur’s feet. The leopard spots were done in egg tempera, which Arthur and Merlin had mixed too thickly, so that it had cracked everywhere, and gave the impression of this particular Questing Beast having contracted a horrid rash, possibly of the sexual variety, judging by the alarming colour of its lesions.

He pulled on the boots for his feet, and the ones for his hands.

“How do I look?”

Arthur’s face made a movement as though it were trying to separate from itself. He held a hand to his mouth, and coughed. “Right. That’s brilliant, Merlin. Now you better practise bounding about. You don’t want to look too human. Your life depends upon it.”

Merlin decided he was not paid enough for this, especially as he wasn’t really paid anything, aside from his meals and the dubious ‘honour’ Arthur kept insisting was an integral part of his service.

He got down on all fours.

He fell over. (It is not easy walking about in four boots, when you have stitched the waist of your onesie too close, and given yourself no room to waggle.)

Arthur was in difficulty. He felt as if his spleen were coming up through his mouth. It was quite possible he was in that slothful transition between life and death, when every excruciating twitch of remaining fight seizes your slow-believing muscles.

Merlin bumped into the bed.

He bumped into the table.

The hood had fallen over his face, and revealed to him that he had forgotten to cut slits for his eyes (well, in the interest of technicality it had revealed nothing to him, certainly not the trunk at the foot of Arthur’s bed).

“And what about...the baying?” Arthur asked, controlling himself in a way that reiterated his right to the divine Destiny which the dragon had foreseen of him.

There were strange noises from the prince’s chambers that day; it was not really the business of the castle staff how he should conduct himself, so they swept past with their eyes straight ahead, though later there would be rumors he had had a lady who had got the bell-end of him most vigorously, and died of the honour.

Merlin did not know how he was to leave the castle to distract the beast, if no one was allowed to set foot outside it. Arthur pointed to the window.

“Oh sure, I’ll just jump and hope she catches me, will I? After all, she’s got lots of appendages like her mouth and _poisoned claws_ to break my fall.”

“Stop being a girl, Merlin,” Arthur demanded. “We’ll lower you down with a rope. I’ll tie it to the chair, and then sit in it. I’m heavier than you; it will hold.”

“That sounds like a really ridiculous way to die,” Merlin said doubtfully.

He was wrong; it was only _nearly_ a really ridiculous way to die.

He was lowered out the window, though Arthur had needed to wrap the rope in a sort of harness around him, since they had overlooked the fact that he couldn’t very well grip it with his hands, if his hands were to keep up the charade of being hooves; they had ripped a hole for either eye, at least, so he could see, poorly, through the loop of mail that had come unstitched and was swinging down about his face.

The Questing Beast watched this even more doubtfully than Merlin had received the news that he was to be lowered out the window into the grip of an animal of such dubious mental state as to fall in love with Arthur. It would have not worked at all if the face on the hood had not been pretty all right; Arthur had painted it with a surprisingly nimble touch. It was a natural talent he might have to explore, if the Questing Beast did not eat Merlin and he wasn’t busy feeling rather lousy about the whole thing.

“Go on, Merlin, you’re fine,” he said, in an encouraging voice as the Questing Beast swooped in and sniffed at him. She pushed at him with her snout.

“ _Arthur_.”

“Relax, you great big muppet. It’s working. I’m lowering you down.”

The Questing Beast watched the thing in the harness jerk, jingling musically. She was too confused to eat it. She poked at it again.

Merlin’s head was now about even with the ledge of the window; the edge of it caught the hood, and jerked it back, so that his dark head emerged, which for a moment confused the Questing Beast more. She realised it was not a stunted Questing Beast with a disease of dubious sexual origins. She was understandably angry.

“ _Arthur_!” Merlin howled, kicking off the wall as she lunged for him.

If you had been standing at the base of the castle, underneath the tower in which Arthur had his rooms, you would have seen only a tiny dot, revolving queerly, and a little shape flitting about it. The screaming would not have given you any helpful context; Arthur and Merlin could be heard yelling at one another at all hours of day and night, and it was by this point a thing unremarked.

But if you had been able to go a little higher, or if you had happened to be sitting in the tower across from it, drinking your last beer, since it was of obvious hallucinogenic powers, and those were the work of the Devil, you would have seen a man in a spotted linen onesie, swinging about wildly, flailing his hoof hands and crying out for absolution. Arthur was trying to grab the rope; Merlin was trying to fend off the Questing Beast with unobtrusive bursts of magic. This was accomplished with a lot of screaming (actually nothing whatsoever was really accomplished, since Merlin was only spinning about in circles, and Arthur could not get hold of the rope, and the Questing Beast could not get hold of Merlin).

“Merlin, stop _moving_!” Arthur demanded.

“I can’t! If I stop moving, she’ll eat me, you clot!” He had forgotten to add the ‘pole’ to the end of it. It was imperative that he pay more attention to not being eaten than to his insults.

Arthur in the meantime was trying to stretch out his legs far enough to get the sword he had dropped beneath the tip of one of his boots, without letting go of the rope. The Questing Beast was yanking the rope about so furiously that he was in danger of falling out the window. He would have gladly fallen out the window for the sake of Merlin, though afterward he would have said he’d only been looking for the fastest route away from his servant's incessant speaking.

He did not really want to kill the Questing Beast; it seemed a poor turn to do to something with the good sense to appreciate his natural charms, even if it was only a nasty old Questing Beast. But it had eaten three of the guard, and it was trying to eat Merlin.

Merlin howled some more, and got his boots (the ones on his feet) more firmly planted, so that he could run along the wall in higher and higher arcs, banging Arthur and chair against the sill; Arthur thought for a moment of letting him fall, or be eaten, after all. He thought, quickly, about which would be worse--and decided, begrudgingly, that the worst of all was still for there to be no Merlin at all.

He got one toe under the sword at last, and flipped it up into one hand, leaning the chair back so that it pinned the rope between the curved back of it and the sill, with all his weight coming down on it.

He plunged the sword backward, and in one clean stroke, took off her head; she plummeted majestically.

Merlin had to be hauled in by his armpits; they fell onto the floor with a great clatter, Merlin in Arthur’s arms, Arthur with his nose pressed uncomfortably into his manservant’s sweaty neck, which reeked awfully of Questing Beast and egg tempera.

“I hate you,” Merlin wheezed.

“Cheer up, Merlin. You just did Camelot a great service,” he panted, and amicably pounded Merlin on the back.

  


There is much still to correct. We must address the true role of wise Queen Guinevere, and noble Sir Lancelot; and there is the terrible secret of Arthur’s birth, and the fall of Morgana Pendragon, more terrible still, yet to unravel. But we ought for the moment to leave it here, in more innocent times, with more innocent men.


	2. Part Two

In the time of Uther Pendragon, men tested their mettle in the following way. They were first bundled into a great lot of armour, which in those days consisted of a mail Hauberk that dangled all the way to one’s knees, the coif (another bit of mail one pulled over their head), and the helmet, which then might have been either a Spangenhelm or a conical helmet. The former was a complicated affair in which multiple strips of iron or perhaps another metal were riveted into the general shape of a man’s head; the spaces between these strips were then filled with sheets of metal, usually layers of copper or bronze. Having laboured over this for a multitude of centuries, all the way up to the 11th where they at last set down their weary bones, mankind decided he ought to have a good lie-in on mornings, and half-assed it: and thus was born the conical helmet, which was only one sheet of iron, pounded into the shape of a head. Sometimes, if the blacksmith were feeling particularly vigorous, or if he wanted to linger over his bellows a little longer, because his wife was yelling at him, he added a little piece of iron that extended down to cover the nose. Last you had the chausses, which covered the legs, so a foe could not come along and lop them off; it is hard to spur a horse unflinchingly onward when you’ve no legs. These were simply mail leggings, and jingled pleasingly whenever their bearer dismounted.

After the armour, the man was put onto a horse. This horse would have been surprisingly smaller than you might imagine, and had no bloodline over which to crow; in the time of Uther Pendragon it was not common to record their pedigrees, since what really mattered was the beast’s heart, and whether it fated him to death on the battlefield, or death beneath a cart. (He could not die standing placidly in a field, because his mates would make fun of him for being a milksop, and then he would lose all face, which is quite a terrible thing to see.)

Then there would be a very large stick put into his hand, and he would try to knock off other men from their mounts, and avoid being knocked off himself. Readers of the female persuasion will find this quite silly, and wonder if they couldn’t have possibly had something better to do with their time, whilst those card-carrying elite of the beef bayonet brigade will clamour to know why this was done away with in the first place.

Arthur was fervently in favour of such sport. (Though of course, we can never be sure if he was actually in favour of it, or if it was Uther’s approval which made him seem to be in favour of it. There has been many a child moulded into their hobbies by filial devotion, since a child is only a second chance to right the wrongs which your own life has done you. A child’s love is a very rude clay, and can be pressed into most any shape one wants.)

Merlin was fervently not in favour of such sport. Firstly, because he was the one who had to put on the armour (and this is a hard task that never spares one’s fingernails); and secondly, because he then had to watch whilst scores of men spurred themselves in Arthur’s direction, and tried to knock off his head. This might all seem rather romantic, because you have got into your head the great mirrors of plate armour, which in rococo flame bear the ailing sun; and when he has scored his touch, the thoughtful knight puts up his lance, and pats his steed’s poetically flailing mane. This is the late Medieval period of which you are thinking; in the time of Uther Pendragon, there was no plate armour, for it would not see its first tentative births till the 13th century, and if we do not know precisely when Arthur of Camelot ruled, we know at least it could not have been so late. Moreover, the tournaments of the early Middle Ages were not such gentlemanly affairs. During a joust, once the lances had finished their business, and failed to unseat either opponent, the men drew their shorter weapons, and set to finishing the task. This might seem ugly, but at least you may be comforted in the long gallop to the engagement, which was quite the ceremony, the mail tinkling in that nebulous whirl of belly dancer and finger cymbals, and the hoofs in drumming accompaniment; if the sun had no solid plate upon which to strike, it found in the mail a thousand brilliant points, and hove them heavenward. The dust cannot really be romantically appointed; but there is the glittering lance, upon which Lady Death ply her sly presage; and long doth fair nature in fragrant bloom hold off the mizzling depths, for it never is mizzling on a tournament day.

All of this is of course to say that there was to be a tournament.

Merlin complained whilst he polished Arthur’s armour, and his boots, and the shaffron for his horse, who was called Belatucadros, officially, and unofficially Whiskers, because he was awfully fond of Arthur, and liked to prop his muzzle on the nape of Arthur’s neck, and tickle the hairs there with his own. The shaffron had to be treated with greater care than Arthur’s own mail. “I don’t see why we need another tournament. What does it all prove anyway?”

“It proves I am fit to lead the people into battle, Merlin.”

“Well, can’t you prove it some other way?” Merlin groused, squinting critically at the bit of mail he had draped over his knee; it was one of the sleeves, and had got some rust on it. “What if someone kills you? Then what we will do? ‘Oh, well, we’ve got no heir to lead the people when Uther dies, but at least he knew how to run at people with a big stick!’”

“There’s more to it then that,” Arthur said distractedly, rooting through his leggings for a pair that was only moderately dirty, rather than abysmally; and deciding he had none fitting, threw the whole lot at Merlin, so that he would know to wash them.

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Arthur said, and ruffled Merlin’s hair as he walked past to pick up his sword from the dining table, where Merlin had laid it after a thorough whetting. He was mildly offended at the look on Merlin’s face, which seemed to suggest by the misery of it that Arthur would perish most foully, and then all the armour polishing would have gone to waste. This seemed immensely unfair to Arthur, who had sacrificed all the flippant whims of careless childhood to beat himself into the sort of son even a man like Uther Pendragon could admire.

Maybe it should be that just occasionally, during very certain moments, we can look into the hearts of our fellow humans, and see in their unsleeping disquiet that it is only how very much they love us, and fear it, which has birthed the doubt in their voice: they do not doubt in our fitness. They doubt in the world’s sanity, and the fickle injustice of neutral chance. What callous yawns it dumbly cracks, plucking wise men from their thrones, and appointing fools in their void. But then what a lot of unpleasantry we would see, how many small cruelties in the best of erring hearts.

Merlin and Arthur did not have the sort of friendship in which you could just _say_ , “I love you, I support you, but also sometimes you’re a great big self-sacrificing nutter, so I’m worried you might behave with unforgivable lunacy, you great clod.” They could say some of these things, of course; but they had to leave off the first part, since in the time of Uther Pendragon men did not yet know they could simply scream “no homo” and so repent of their Feelings. It would have been of great use to Arthur especially if he had known about it, since he could then do things like hold Merlin’s hand when he had fallen behind on a hunt, or lean his cheek on the nape of Merlin’s neck when he was tired, or tell Merlin that he did not accept lady’s favours at tournaments because he still carried the scrap of neckerchief which Merlin had once used to bind an arm wound he had got in a melee. Actually, none of these could really have been smoothed over with a timely “no homo”, but Arthur was still wholly devoted to the notion that he liked women (and this cannot be disputed, but it does not revoke the fact that he also liked Merlin), and that everyone occasionally daydreamed about running away to a small village to live a soft and halcyon life with their most steadfast servant, who had very nice blue eyes.

It has come time for us to address the Guinevere business, which most assuredly did not happen the way you think it happened. It was during this particular tournament that it all started.

First we must establish that at this moment of the story, Gwen hardly took any notice of Arthur; in fact, she had nurtured a giddiness for Merlin since she had met him in the stocks, and had even, whilst he lay dying of the poison from Arthur’s chalice, kissed him most thoroughly when it turned out that after all he was not dead, which is a very nice thing to learn. (Arthur, it ought to be noted, did not know of this; and if he had, probably it would have befallen that he never worked himself into his momentary fancy--which we will explain shortly--because we never are especially prone to bewitchment by someone who has tasted our own secret longings, when we have had none whatsoever; and then things might have fallen out quite differently.) It was not hard to love Merlin, or at least to fall into those old patterns of flustered elation which are so well-tread, and seem so often a deeper affection. He was kind to most everyone, and generally liked amongst the servants, except cook, who had on multiple occasions caught him filching her tarts. He was in fact popular amongst most of the female servants, and could be found nearly every day with one flower or another in his neckerchief, the meaning of which quite escaped him, because he was largely romantically indifferent toward the whole of the castle staff, and therefore it never occurred to him that the nonchalance was not necessarily mutual. Gwen drooped sadly whenever she saw these flowers, and in the mornings hastened to get hers in first; Arthur, who also never failed to remark them, felt naturally outraged at such a waste of Camelot’s resources. He tried merciless teasing, and when Merlin didn’t care about that, he would order Merlin to leave them in Gaius’ room, as he had developed a sudden and tragic allergy to the bits of bluebell which were now a common staple of Merlin’s attire.

“Even the ones in the vase there?” Merlin asked, pointing to the table beside Arthur's bed, and was smacked across the back of the head for his impertinence.

So at the time of the tournament of which we are about to speak, Gwen was no more enamoured of Arthur than she was of any other random noble who might be handsome, but was distinctly beyond her reach, and most importantly, not Merlin. She thought him good-looking, because he was, as anyone (Arthur in particular) could tell you. She also thought him rather arrogant, and a bit too obviously masculine for her tastes. It was all right to be masculine; in fact, to be a man, and anything else, was not only stormily frowned upon in that day, but sometimes punished; but there was hardly a need to go rubbing it about in everyone’s faces all the time, as if one couldn’t see for themselves that your deeds were gracious, and your sword form impeccable. She did not think broad shoulders said anything especially one way or another about a man; Merlin’s were bony, after all, and he was the best of any of the men she knew, not to mention the fact that Arthur’s daydreams were right about his blue eyes.

Everything might have stayed as it was, if Arthur had not thrown a fit over the knights coddling him during practice; for during a jousting bout Sir Leon rode him down most finely, and when the sun blinded Arthur, and mussed his aim, put up his lance before it could strike true. This was not dishonourable on Sir Leon’s part; Arthur was the heir to all of Camelot. One did not maim the heir to all of Camelot during a bit of play, of all things. Perhaps in titanic battle, at a pivotal moment, if he had taken a fatal hit, and was expiring badly, with a lot of carping. But certainly not before a tournament, with a practice lance.

Merlin later had to listen all over again as Arthur frothily recounted this unacceptable cosseting, and assure him that surely the knights didn’t do it _all_ the time, and then to backtrack and assure him they didn’t do it at all, which was rather a poorly thought out lie, when they had just done it some two hours past.

This led to another plan of Arthur’s which Merlin liked slightly more than the Questing Beast plot, though not much. He was never overly inclined toward any of Arthur’s plans, which nearly always involved Merlin playing some sort of bait, and afterward Arthur rushing in valiantly to dispatch anyone who tried to touch him, even if there were some twenty of them. Arthur regularly fought two knights at once, blindfolded, partially because he could, and partially because he made Merlin attend all practise and could then show him what a brilliant master he had got. This persuaded Arthur that, fully-sighted, it was perfectly reasonable for him to fight twenty men at once, and expect victory.

Fortunately this was a gentler plan. It was decided that Arthur could not enter the tournament as Arthur Pendragon, because his opponents might fret over mussing his hair, or bruising his fair and peach-like flesh; therefore he had to be someone else. It was easiest to be no one; for none of the knights would care about bashing round some random git from lands unknown. To accomplish this, a replacement had to be gotten for the moments when the helmet came off, and the crowds roared their inebriated approval. He would have used Merlin, if everyone had not known Merlin; but because they did, another man was chosen, and paid generously for his silence. It was an awful lot of bother for him to sit on a horse in armour and wave to some adoring ladies; but someone had to do it, for the sake of the gold. Oh, and for prince and country, or something like that.

Uther was fed a massive fib about a magical beast somewhere on the outskirts of Camelot, which would, regrettably, engage Arthur for the duration of the tournament; Merlin coughed politely through the lie, and got himself kicked by Arthur.

This left another few details to tidy up. First, unmistakably less regal garb would have to be provided, so that Arthur could slip unseen through the lower town each morning of the following three tourney days, reach the tent of his appointed ‘champion’ without event, and seamlessly switch out with him. He made Merlin give him some of his own clothes, and this was surely not romantic, because he complained unceasingly about the way they smelled, though Merlin had washed them special for the occasion.

Next, of course, he would need a place to shelter. He would have liked the satisfaction of forcing Merlin to give up his own bed, and laying his head where Merlin had only just laid his, and breathing the scent of the herbs Merlin used to clean his hair, which he never did, and was never interested in; but of course Merlin lived in the palace, so that was unthinkable. Merlin had then to use his smile on Gwen, who had her own little house in the lower town, and tell her all sorts of rubbish about what a good house guest Arthur was, and how whenever it was that Merlin felt too tired to finish his chores, Arthur did them uncomplainingly, and always picked up his own hosen, which never smelled. This sounded like a lot of bollocks to Gwen, but she was too nice to say so. She would dearly have liked to tell him that Arthur could piss off, and good riddance; but it is always so much more difficult to be rough with a first love. There is no refusal which comes harder to our tongues, which have tasted aught but poetry since we laid upon them our first starry glance.

Arthur was worse than she expected. He took the only bed, to begin with. He expected to break fast at her table, without having strained a finger in the laying of it; he left in his wake all the items of his illustrious being, crumbs from his lunch, mud from his boots, and most offensively of all, his braies themselves, which he cast off before getting starkers into her bed, just as if it were his own.

Gwen was a nice girl, and did not like to tell people they were gits; but we cannot endure forever, especially when there is dirty underwear on our floor.

She told Arthur he was a git. She said it a bit more nicely than that, certainly more nicely than Merlin would have, but nevertheless it was done, and Arthur, who had not meant to be inconsiderate, and was simply used to expecting that he would be catered to, and afterward given a nice bum licking by the most dexterous of honeyed tongues (we would not want this to be misconstrued, of course, so we will be explicit in pointing out that this is, naturally, meant in the sycophant sense, not the erotic sense) felt poorly about the whole thing. He was somewhat awkward. He did not know how to apologise for leaving his underwear on the floor; he had been raised to believe the floor a legitimate repository for it, which soon afterward magically vanished it into the steaming lye, and returned it neatly folded to his clothing chest.

He decided it must be made up to her, because he was not _entirely_ a wanker, and because she was pretty, and it must be supposed from his interactions with Merlin that he liked being told off, just a bit.

He rode magnificently at the tournament, unseating all but one of his opponents, which he finished off with a gauntleted punch that spilled the poor man helmetless into the dust, to evade his mount’s uneasy hooves. He decided he would finish the day by cooking Gwen a nice dinner. He realised he did not know how to cook a nice dinner; he looked with fear into the cavernous bum of the chicken Gwen had laid out for the evening, pursing his lips. It seemed to him that perhaps something ought to be done with the arse, and that was why it was open like that. He put his hand into it, assuming the mystery would be solved; it left him feeling vaguely ashamed, though the chicken could not have minded. He said, “Sorry, old chum” as he did it, to warn it, and then looked round to see if anyone were observing him. Gwen was off relaxing after a long day of dealing with Arthur’s undergarments, and Merlin had got wind of the fact that an assassin had been sent to eradicate one Arthur Pendragon, and had his hands full dealing with that, sans any accolades, as usual. He had in fact just magically misdirected an arrow meant to take Arthur smack between the eyes, and was now in pursuit of the man who had shot it, which meant he had seen the bit with the chicken, and sadly could not mention it.

Arthur sent for Merlin, who came in panting, with dirt in his hair. He had nearly been assassinated in Arthur’s place, not that Arthur cared.

“Go to the castle and get me some dinner. Enough for two.”

“Oh, no, no; you’re not Prince Arthur right now, remember? You’re the servant. You wanted to be somebody else for the tourney, and somebody else doesn’t have the authority to boss me around.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, exasperatedly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now, go and get me something with chicken in it.”

“Why not? It isn’t as if I have anything better to do. No, Merlin doesn’t have a life, he doesn’t need a day off, after all he’s just waiting round for a summons.”

“Glad to hear it,” Arthur replied, and made shooing motions at him, looking over his shoulder.

“Why do you need dinner for two?” Merlin asked, determined to be difficult about this. Arthur blew out his lips, like a horse.

“Because it’s come to my attention that I’ve been a somewhat selfish house guest. And I’ve decided to make up for it by cooking dinner tonight.”

“It’s not cooking if you get it from the kitchen.”

“I’m aware of that, Merlin.”

“So you’re making it up to Gwen by cheating.”

“It isn’t _cheating_ ; trust me, it’s a great kindness I’m doing Gwen by not subjecting her to my cooking.”

“How come you never try to make it up to me with a nice dinner?”

“Because,” Arthur drawled, with a brewing threat in his voice, “it’s literally your _job_ to pick up my clothes, you’re lousy at it, and I have to put up with so much utter _nonsense_ from you that if anyone ought to be making it up with nice dinners, it’s you.”

“I bring you dinner every night.”

“Merlin, I don’t have time to sit here and argue. _Go_.”

Merlin went. He decided that next time Gaius sent him herb gathering, he would find something especially slimy to put into Arthur’s bed.

The dinner was dispatched with great aplomb; Gwen found it very surprising to discover that perhaps Arthur was not such a narcissistic twit after all; Arthur found it very surprising that Gwen should have had such an unfavourable opinion of him in the first place, despite the dirty underwear. He had been told often and quite convincingly that he was lovely, except by Merlin, whose opinion didn’t count. He had a very grave mental affliction wherein he didn’t find Arthur completely charming, and could not be trusted to form a valid conclusion about anything.

Sometimes all that is needed is a nice dinner, and close sleeping quarters; this strews the first feeble seeds, which both parties afterward water when they are equally attractive, and open to romancing; and most young people, when there is still spring in their bones, and a functioning libido in their loins, are open to romancing. There were moreover candles, which made Arthur’s hair into a scintillating cap, and caught in his eyes; and we would be much surprised to discover that it did not wreak similar mischief in Gwen’s fine features. They talked late into the night, which is the final necessary piece to secure those little flares of amorous sensitivity. It was not that they fell in love; it was that they were both fluttery with the presence of the thoughtful dinner, and their own beauty, and sometimes this is taken for something more than it is. Human connection is a great and wondrous thing that carries us all off occasionally; what a dreadful world indeed, if we did not have it in us to fall in love often and easily, with every genial interaction. We ought to do it more freely, with every kindness we witness; and perhaps then we would be ever so less inclined toward the violence we all do one another, inadvertently and otherwise.

Gwen went about humming next morning when Arthur departed to ride his final event.

Now, Merlin had already taken in hand the business with the assassin, so there was no danger, and he could watch the match and breathe as freely as he ever did, whilst people were pointing sharp objects at Arthur. He would not have liked to admit it aloud, but he was proud. He was sick with it, in fact; perhaps what Uther had forced out of his heart when Arthur killed his wife had stumbled about looking for a worthier host, and found it in Merlin, for his heart grew unimaginably in moments like this, and he thought, almost with a savage consciousness of his true and basest feelings, of how he loved Arthur, and what he would not lay down for him. The mighty Whiskers surged forward, his rider in smooth harmony; they did not seem separate beings. You could see in the rapport of them that each considered the other a sort of extra limb, and shifted to accommodate its weight, and the independent movement of it, till it all seemed one flowing line from which the artist had not lifted their brush. You did not have to be told that either would give his life for the other. The dust lifted in a hot whipping round them, and made of their emergence beyond it something only a finer pen can describe, in rhythm of tender alcaic. It may be that Uther at least suspected something in this moment, though one horse looks much the same as any other.  

He struck the other knight a bang-on blow.

Merlin smiled. He could not do it till the end, when he saw the riders separate, and knew in the same way he would feel a wound in his own flesh that Arthur had not been injured.

There was a curious thing. When it came time for the dramatic denouement, Arthur did not whip off his helmet and bask in the crowd’s wild approval. He sent out the man he had hired to marinate in this stunning triumph, and returned to Gwen’s house in Merlin’s clothes.

They shuffled round each other for a bit. They made their apologies. It may seem that Arthur, being handsome, and a prince, should have been a bit better at this; but we have seen how he comported himself with Merlin.

Finally, he said sincerely, “Thank you, Guinevere,” and he meant it. If the people should not find themselves comfortable in telling him when his behavior was unworthy, he ought never to ascend the throne. This must have been what the dragon had seen in his heart: that he would rather abdicate than be a ruler unapproachable for the humblest of farmers and his entreaties. A great many human tragedies might have been averted, if more men knew to respect his lowly subjects as well as his lordly. But the human race has never been interested in the averting of tragedies. We have always looked at the whole mad clockwork of humanity, and seen where the gears have gone to bits, and our ancestors erred in the mending of them, and left the thing to tick inexorably onward, as if we never had any other choice.

There came a moment where it would have been prudent for Arthur to leave, and when he had passed that moment, there came another moment when it would have been prudent for him to act upon the look in Gwen’s eyes. He passed that too. It may not so much have been thickness as it was the fact that Gwen was the People, and the People were hallowed, and he still did not feel, and probably never would do, that he quite deserved them; or it was thickness.

Gwen coughed politely, to indicate that he should get on with it, or GTFO.

As there was at that moment a romantic flare from the sunlight through the window, when it had achieved its apex of beauty, in the first poignant struggles of its evening death, Arthur elected to get on with it. He was tall, as legends are meant to be, and had to bend down some ways to reach Gwen’s face, so that both their hearts had some time to work themselves into a fuss over the whole thing, and whip up that great disappointer, anticipation.

In the absolute strictest sense of technicality, it was a brilliant showing. Gwen wrapped her arms round Arthur’s neck; Arthur put his strong arms round her waist. Their faces melded perfectly, as if, dare we say it--they had been made for one another. There was no ugly mashing of teeth, or the bumping about of noses; and Arthur, if he had not been able to win over the castle dogs in his lonely youth, had certainly won over his right hand, which he had used to practise his snogging, till he was of an age to try it out on real ladies. They both tried to project something of themselves into the kiss, otherwise it is only a lot of saliva and rude sounds.

They pulled back. Arthur’s arms were still round her waist. She had not taken her own from his neck.

“Oh,” said Gwen. “That was--that was very nice, Sire.” She should not have been able to talk.

They both took away their arms at the same moment.

“Well. Good show,” Arthur said, shaking Gwen’s hand firmly. He had lost all his royal bearing. It had dawned on him that he had been thinking of Merlin during the kiss. This will come as no surprise to the reader, but it was a great one to Arthur. He did not know why it should be that he had pictured his manservant’s face whilst wearing a much prettier one off a fair maiden. Gwen, for her part, had been thinking of the wall.

They were both somewhat chagrined (Arthur exceedingly more so). They had all the proper components of beauty and hormonal avidity. It was only that Arthur’s heart had already made up its mind, and Gwen’s had not really found Arthur as lustily proficient as the enthusiasm of his right hand might have avidly suggested.

Arthur returned to the castle in his own clothes, and threw the whole nasty bundle of Merlin’s into his face, except for the cloak, which he kept for future covert operations, since no wandering patrol could expect to find under something so threadbare the face of his impeccable liege.

  


Merlin knew about the kiss, of course. He had it out of both of them. Gwen told the truth; Arthur prattled on about the softness of Gwen’s lips, and the womany womanliness of her bosom, which he liked quite manfully, in a very manlike way. The way men did, when they liked women in all their soft and booby femininity.

“Ok?” Merlin said, returning to his dusting.

Arthur would then sit about writing terrible love poems to cement his irrefutable interest in the matter of bosoms; in those days sonnets had not yet been invented, so he had to utilise the elegies of Ovid’s _Amores_ as a template, and we don’t mean to be cruel, but there is only one Ovid, for very good reason. He would leave these about for Merlin to see. Merlin did not suppose there should be any reason why Arthur _shouldn’t_ love Gwen, who was not only beautiful, but kind, and had once told off cook for bashing his fingers with a frying pan, and then stammered through an apology, and afterward shored up her shoulders and said, quite boldly, no, after all she had meant it: cook was nasty. She was in addition to this an excellent drinker, who had more than once put Sir Leon into a stupor trying to keep pace.

So it should be no wonder that Merlin took Arthur perfectly seriously, and decided it was necessary to help his friend secure his lady, since his friend could obviously not do so himself, having bungled the kissing, which was not of any great shock to Merlin, considering Arthur’s teeth. He imagined they interfered quite consistently with that sort of thing; not, of course, that he had ever imagined what it might be like to engage in that sort of thing with Arthur.

We will not say that Merlin was of such good and beneficent heart that he did not feel in him that green and bitter serpent; oh, sour envy, which doth mock its hapless devourings. But he did not mind that he should ache, if in the depths of his suffering there should be found the joy of his friends.

In the weeks that followed the kiss, it went something like this: Gwen would look owl-like at Arthur, and sweep past him very quickly with an armful of linens; Arthur would look owl-like at Gwen, and sweep past her very quickly with no armful of anything, because he had people to do that for him. Merlin would look at them both with a look reminiscent of another animal entirely, something crafty, or rather, something that thought it was crafty, when actually all the humans were watching intently, waiting for it to be a twat. If this sounds quite specific, it is because the author has had an experience or two with the _felis assholeius_ , that is, the common housecat. Arthur and Gwen were subjected to the following (but not limited to): ‘accidental’ meetings in the lower town where Merlin had informed both parties he would be patiently waiting with something of vital import to their functioning day; ‘anonymous’ bouquets he made sure to splash with a bit Gwen’s violet cordial, or dress with little notes from Arthur’s personal parchment, in Arthur’s personal hand; there were all the myriad unsubleties of ‘so and so said this’ and ‘so and so said that’, and all the myriad ludicrosities of love notes neither had written.

This might have continued unto infinity, had not what is occasionally bound to befall a healer suddenly occurred; Merlin fell ill; dangerously so.

It was the creeping sort of sickness we have all had at one point or another, when the body feels that something is out of sorts, and calls the white cells to swift and hearty attack, and all throughout us there is a sense of this microscopic clash: the brain jabs with wary confusion at its cage; the muscles seize with that pre-battle tension of prehistoric instinct, when it must be decided, without the relevant context, whether it is the time for fight or flight; and the throat rebels something awful, so that in each stabbing swallow you must be made to remember in your swift and vital youth there is bent-backed Infirmity and all his disdainful rages, which might come for anyone.

Merlin did not particularly take notice of this; he had chores to attend, and his magic would address any little threat to his health. He said nothing to Gaius, or to Arthur.

He was out riding with Arthur when suddenly he fell off his horse. This was not unusual; Arthur swung about, laughed at Merlin’s poor seat, and swung back again. He chattered on happily; it was a warm day, with the sun in unrestrained flower; and he had Merlin. There was nothing about which to not be happy.

He rode on for a few steps before it occurred to him Merlin had not replied; and Merlin always replied.

He swung back once more, and found that his manservant was still lying on the ground, face down, with the grass still before his nose, and his arm bent underneath him at an angle no living man would long have endured.

It is frightening enough to see a man bleeding with dire rapidity, and more frightening still to know that something inside of him has suddenly happened, spontaneously, where no mortal man can peer, and set it to rights.

He said, “ _Merlin_ ” as if the mysterious thing had happened inside of him, and got something out of him which could not be got back. He dismounted at a sprint; he turned Merlin over in his arms.

There is such shallow inadequacy in the word ‘relief’; he saw the chest was moving, and the pale lids flickering, he felt the entire warm and moving mass in his arms, and looked up into the sky; he did not know where else to look. He did not know where else to appeal. He did not know where else to thank. It must have been what death felt like, to crouch there in the cold unknowing, waiting to see if anything could go on.

He slung Merlin over the front of his saddle and rode back to Camelot at full gallop. He did not have to whip up Whiskers, who sensed his master’s distress, and helped in the only way he could, which was to run as fast as his heart and spirit could goad him, in the direction he was pointed.

“Get him to the bed,” Gaius said immediately, when Arthur banged through his doors, Merlin over one shoulder.

It is impossible to know how long he waited for Gaius’ diagnosis; fear is such a terrible clock. There are no such infinitesimal units of second and minute; there is eternity. There is an understanding of Before, and there is the terrible anticipation of After. It is a horrid way of going about immortality; and how many and monotonous lives Arthur must have spent in the long deafness of this moment.

“Sire, I think you had better leave.”

“Why? Gaius, what’s wrong with him?”  Arthur did not ask it; he demanded. Gaius was a dear friend and valued member of the court, and did not deserve his tone; but he was not sure what would happen to his voice if he said it softly. He did not know what would happen to his heart, if he acknowledged that perhaps it was a thing to whisper.

“I don’t know yet, Arthur,” Gaius said, and touched his arm, gently, the way Uther would not. “But he has lesions. Whatever it is, it’s probably contagious. You ought not to expose yourself to it.”

Arthur drew himself up. He looked at Merlin, pale on his bed, his lashes so very black against his cheek. I think, if he had loved him a little less, he would have brashly gone to him, and sat beside the bed, and taken the cold unstirring hand in his. Instead he was stuck; he could not leave the room, and risk that Merlin should die without him; he could not kneel beside the bed, and feel the animated flesh leave him in slow disastrous intervals. He looked at Gaius, like a child. “I can’t leave him. He’s my friend.”

“I know, Arthur,” Gaius said, softly, softly; and he was very old in that moment. He said the only thing he could to persuade Arthur from their rooms, so that Merlin’s magic might mount in peace the momentous struggle to come. “I can’t be certain for sure, but it could be smallpox.” He could not have said, “You have yourself to think of.” This had never been very effective when the life Arthur was to weigh against his own belonged to Merlin. He said instead: “We can’t let it spread. You must think of Camelot.”

Arthur looked at the feeble and shivering thing that was his friend, which illness had made into something Other, and which Death might yet further distort. He said, “You’re right, Gaius” and did not move. Perhaps he was waiting for Merlin to open his eyes; perhaps he thought if he could see into them for a moment, it would be all right after all. We are never more naive than when we kneel before a disease which has lain unmoaning in the hearts of the halest men, and taken them secretly. There was probably a silly little voice in his head which told him if Merlin opened his eyes, be they shot with feverish glaze, and the skin round them as wax, he could sleep bold in the knowledge that tomorrow he’d have Merlin buffing his buttons most ineptly, whistling as he polished.

“Sire,” Gaius said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

He remembered Camelot.

He walked somehow back to his own rooms.

He paced. That was unsatisfactory. He sat down in his favourite chair. That too was unsatisfactory. He paced again. He sat down in his second favourite chair.

There was a knock at the door.

He leapt to his feet; there is no such swift turning of the tide in a patient so poorly, unless it is a black one; he thought Gaius had come to shatter him. For a moment he lived the whole long remainder of his life without Merlin, and could not call out. He swallowed the whole lot of his repressed feelings, which were trying to assert themselves at once; he said, “Enter!”

It was Gwen.

“Guenevere,” he breathed, and sank back into his second favourite chair.

She hovered as one does, which is to say, awkwardly, trying to decide what ought to be done with the nuisance of her hands. “Hi! I, um, well...I heard about Merlin. I thought...I’m worried. I thought you might like...company? Anyway, I shouldn’t have come. I just thought, well, I was just...I was just round to see Gaius, you know?”

“Guen-e-vere,” Arthur said, letting out a long sigh through his nose. He was not too much of an oaf to ignore the obvious tears in her eyes. It was no use getting so worked up over _Merlin_ , of course, but girls were sentimental like that. They had to be, so they could raise the children, and the men had time to go out and stab things. (He would not have told Morgana this either, lest he be the thing that was stabbed.) He gestured to his favourite chair, being of altruistic heart. “Sit down.”

She sat.

They stared at one another over the table for a moment.

Arthur twiddled his thumbs.

Gwen tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

They had forgotten that a mutual concern only binds hearts previously aloof; it cannot carry on a conversation. It would have been very nice if it could have, since they had both begun to run out of hangnails to contemplate; Arthur had already looked at the scab on his palm twice, and was beginning to think he ought better to have said, “I appreciate your concern, but piss off” which would not have been very princely. He said, out of pure courtliness: “Do you play chess?”

“Oh! Yes. That would be nice. It would, you know, take our minds off--though I’m sure Merlin will be...he’ll be fine. Don’t you think?”

Arthur was still trying to process the fact that he had invited a lady to strategise against him, and the lady had accepted. Moreover, the lady did not seem at all concerned about the upcoming strategising; she had started to set up the board deftly, waiting for an answer.

“Uh...of course. Merlin’s much heartier than he looks. Where did you learn…?”

“Oh! My dad taught me. I’ve been playing since I was a kid. I’m not half-bad.”

She was not even ¼ bad; she beat Arthur. He blinked at the board for some time. He had always suspected Merlin of cheating; it seemed a thing Merlin might do, to take some of the Mickey out of him, but Gwen was a soft, subordinate creature with doe eyes; and if there is anything we can count on, it is that no such creature could outmaneuver a prince at his own manly game.

“Do you want to go again?” Gwen asked.

He did; he had only let her win, of course, because of this whole Merlin business, and the tears she had discreetly cuffed off her cheek before sitting down to the table. But even a fair maiden cannot prevail forever upon a man’s honour, when a strict adherence to it means he should be beaten at chess _twice_ , by the aforementioned fair maiden.

She won again; she did not seem to particularly struggle for it.

He got up and fetched a map of Camelot; he pushed the chess board aside and unrolled it between them. “If there were a patrol, here, and I wanted to ambush them, where should I put my men?” he asked.

“Well, I should think...here.” And she tilted the map toward her, furrowing her brow for a moment over the terrain, and then tapping with her finger.

“Huh,” Arthur said, tipping his head to one side.

  


And so it went. Uther had been informed what danger a peasant had dared bring to his kingdom, and confined Arthur to his own rooms, in case he should have been exposed, with a lot of noise about the murderous consequences, should the peasant live and Arthur perish of his parasites.

It was not of particular concern that Merlin should outlive Arthur’s incubation period; he was poorly. In the evenings Gwen crept round to Gaius’, and then to Arthur’s, having scrubbed up with a lot of herbal washes in the interim. They played chess tensely, and discussed battle; Gwen had some ideas about improving his current arms, and measured him for new mail. (If we have neglected to mention it before, we ought here to interject that Gwen was the daughter of Camelot’s prize blacksmith, or at least she had been, till a charge of sorcery had the consequence of making him most foully dead.)

She was not long in realising that Arthur loved Merlin. It was an undercurrent she sensed; she could not get at the overt mass of it, because Arthur was careful to be derisive between his fussing, and to say all the things that might be expected of a man in his usual anguish over a good and brotherly friend. There was only a feeling; there was only a sudden _oh_ when he tapped a pawn against his lips and said, nearly to himself, “Merlin is an idiot; it’s hardly a wonder he’s got himself into something like this.” She had inside her a sudden click, as if there had been something missing; and it was simply known from then on that Arthur had Camelot, and Arthur had Merlin; and the two were his world.

She must have been raised on all the Church’s usual blatherings about wickedness; she must have been so greatly inclined toward abhorrence, like any good Christian. But there was only a great heaving in her; she thought, oh, _Arthur_ , and longed to touch his cheek. There was no longer any candlelit dinner in her, doing its base mischief. She thought, oh, he must have tried so hard not to, with all of Uther’s crooked teachings in his muddled young heart.

The evenings had made of them the sort of companions who could speak casually; she had lost some of her stammer. She touched his elbow, and smiled; he did not understand it, but there are some smiles we can never help but return.

  


Of course, Merlin recovered; it would not be much of a story if he had not. He was some days recovering, and then one evening, a little paler, a little thinner, he walked into Arthur’s chambers.

“Merlin!” Gwen cried out, and flew into his arms.

Arthur did not have the same freedom; he stood up and clasped his hands behind his back, as if for an inspection. “Well, I see you’ve finished your little nap. Always slacking, then, Merlin.”

Merlin smiled at him over Gwen’s head; Arthur was staggered by it. He felt a hot closeness in his throat, and thought what a very nice thing it must be, to feel him as firm flesh in one’s arms, warm, alive; _Merlin_ would have rushed at him like a great girl for some soppy reunion, but he had a reputation to uphold. And dignity.

Instead they stared at one another, in a distinctly chummy sort of way that was not at all longing, and which did not at all make Gwen feel as if she had intruded upon something private, and which certainly did not make Arthur’s heart feel like a soft and ruined thing, and which most certainly of all did not make the tips of Merlin’s ears flush.

“How else was I to get a day off?” Merlin asked him, and they exchanged some masculine arm gripping.

“Good to see you on your feet again,” Arthur told him, quietly, after Gwen had left, and Merlin had begun to poke the fire.

“It almost sounds like you missed me, Arthur.”

“Almost,” Arthur said, and punched him in the arm.

  


There are conflicting reports as to the precise number of knights who were granted the distinguished honour of a seat at Arthur’s legendary Round Table; it is quite a vast spectrum, in fact, with estimates stretching from a meager dozen to well over 150. There have been a few professorial fisticuffs over this; scholars are a generally volatile bunch, being altogether doughy, and short-sighted, and having in these attributes the freedom of what softness books inflict on an academic, they are able to mix it up quite frequently, without any lawsuits, as everyone generally walks away with a few dints in their pride rather than their skull. From one such scuffle arose the commonly accepted sum of 25; so we shall use that, when it is relevant.

It would be tiring to list every name of the 25, particularly when we mean only to deal with a very few of them, and have no interest in endearing you to more than but three or perhaps four. We should first start with those who have been most maligned by history: that is to say, we shall start with Lancelot and Gwaine, most notably the latter, who it has been said spent his childhood on the dirty straw of a raw tower without any tapestries, murdering unicorns. History further claims that he had a somewhat elastic definition of ‘chivalry’ and used to bend it to include beheading women who had chafed his infamous temper. These are all dire untruths. We think the ugly and self-loathing Lancelot of these ‘histories’ perhaps somehow got himself mixed in with the Gwaine who was of actual flesh and blood, and the names were mismatched; which is not to say that Gwaine was a crooked beast who had had to study his face from every angle in the bleak honesty of his helmet to find one which was human, as he was a comely lad. You must picture all the knights as comely lads, in fact, since the deeds of ugly men are never set down in stolid ink, to be repeated by their children’s children.

No, Gwaine was as handsome as Arthur himself, and his hair was far better; but he had got into a habit of smiling when he was hurt, and this is not a natural human oddity. It is only when someone has told us there is something inside of us that is unfixable. This can only impress itself upon the hearts of children, who believe whatever ill is said of them. It is impossible now to know precisely what was said to him, and who said it; but in the end he became a man, as children always do, and he was a man who thought he must never take any offense, because he did not deserve it; he knew compassion in all its terrible stirrings, because he had inside of him a great store of it, since it is a gruesome fact of human nature that the kindnesses we are denied we dole out to others, some of us with unending faith; and some of us with unending despair. But he believed compassion the natural right of others, and never himself.

It is doubtful he would have stuck his arm into a patch of stinging nettles for a lie over some bent arrows; but I think he would have done it if someone had offered to be his friend if only he ruined his shooting arm, and afterward smiled when they laughed over his naivete. In every clown there is at least a hollow carapace of acceptance, which is shattered the moment he stops being funny; but whilst he is the source of everyone’s mirth, he has a tie to all the laughing world.

Arthur and Merlin found him in the tavern of a small village on Camelot’s borders. They had exhausted themselves on a hunt (well, Merlin had exhausted himself; _Arthur_ hardly had to run about collecting his own game) and were in need of repast. Arthur reminded Merlin that he was now only a simple peasant, and was to be addressed as such in front of the people. There is no better way to test the political waters of an outlying populace, after all. Merlin thought Arthur had the ‘simple’ part down brilliantly, and they proceeded to a table, where they were immediately intercepted by the proprietor, who was called Mary.

“You’re an handsome fellow!” she said, and Arthur was so used to hearing this that he took it perfectly graciously, smiling in gentle commiseration over his beauty, which she would never be able to have.

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first to say it,” he told her with a deep understanding of how ruddy awful it must be, to have to look upon him in all his blonde musculature, and get none of it whatsoever.

“Oh, no, sorry--I was talking about your friend here,” Mary said, pointing at Merlin.

Merlin was exceptionally chuffed, and smiled all the way to the tips of his ears, which turned pink.

“ _Him_?” Arthur demanded, turning round to look at his manservant, and see if he had spontaneously transformed into a strapping young man with thighs of God-like stature, like some people who would remain unnamed, for reasons of humbleness. He had nice eyes, with lashes for days; and his smile brought into his face a light which could be reasonably expected to outperform any luminary invention of man or nature; the lips were of good form, full, an invitational sort of mouth, of soft and roseate promise; and though the ears were ill-proportioned, it was really only possible to describe them as ‘adorable’, since they did Merlin the favour of making him look remarkably dear, and charming, and rather irresistible.

But _handsome_ seemed a bit ridiculous; no need for hyperbole.

He ordered them each an ale, and glared at Merlin, who was still beaming, and looking quite frightful, with his hair all wild from the ride, and his eyes radiant with an unexpected compliment, and really, the whole effect was quite off-putting, and Arthur could hardly believe that just because looking at Merlin was enough to lift a foul mood and remind one of the bits of the world which were still good, and worthy, that it should be enough to categorise him as _handsome_.

He ducked his shoulders over his ale, and kicked Merlin beneath the table.

Merlin kicked him back.

They went on for some time exchanging these nudges, and smiling at one another, because it is difficult to evict the vitality of a good hard ride in a high wind, and the ale was a strong brew that loosened them both, so that in the end Arthur didn’t mind it when they stopped kicking one another and let their feet rest casually against each other, his on top of Merlin’s, their knees touching.

Of course as this was a tavern, there were bound to be some bad apples, and one of them stomped in whilst Arthur was contemplating whether or not it was the done thing for a prince to gently caress (that is, to tickle) the calf of his manservant with the toe of his boot. This particular wanker announced himself by knocking the dishes out of the hand of a poor wench, and scaring the utter bejaysus out of her. He addressed himself to Mary: “Afternoon. Business looks good.”

“We have our better days,” Mary said, warily.

“I don’t suppose you’d begrudge me my share, then,” said the wanker, and some coins were immediately thrown to him. However, there was not a satisfactory number of them, so the man grabbed Mary by her collar and pulled a dagger, and made her to understand by its position against her eye that she would need to turn out her pockets entirely, if she had any particular fancy for the eye.

Arthur stood up. “Take your hands off her.”

Remember that he was here only a humble peasant like the rest of them, and that the man had no reason to assume he was addressing himself to a prince, and one who was moreover known for fighting his knights blindfolded, and his enemies three at a time. This was a very large man of twice Arthur’s breadth, who considered himself well within his rights to step on any stupid plonker enough into his cups or his delusions to consider him a desirable opponent; it was only a good scrubbing for the gene pool, after all. And couldn’t we all use with a bit more of that?

He threw himself upon Arthur.

Arthur got his hands neatly on the man’s jacket, and pitched him into the wall, almost without effort. Merlin was not quite deep enough in his ale to applaud; but he did it internally, beaming all over his face once more. He felt all warm and sloppy inside when Arthur did something noble, that involved his forearm muscles, rather as if something had opened within, and all the vital bits fallen helpless at his feet. He didn’t really care if Arthur spotted him looking up at him with the full soppy force of these mangled vitals, since Arthur was too stupid to recognise it, and would only flash the horsey teeth in some confusion of reciprocal feeling.

The man (we should note that he was called Dagr, since he plays an extended role in this first adventure of Gwaine’s) brushed himself off, and heaved himself back to his enormous feet. He was, unsurprisingly, a bit upset at having been manhandled by some pretty toff with his fancy blonde hair and his fancy white teeth. He said with considerable menace, “I’m going to make you pay for that," and Merlin snorted into his ale, and mumbled, “I’d like to see you try.”

Dagr whistled.

It must have been ten men of equal stature who shuffled into the bar, cracking their knuckles. Arthur worked his jaw round rapidly, turning with withering stare to Merlin, who said, “Oops?” and got up from his chair.

“Well, you’ve really put your foot in it this time, Merlin.” They put their backs to one another, and got their fists up. Merlin, Arthur was quite sure, must look utterly absurd, and would be cuffed to the side immediately, if his attacker wasn’t fatally incapacitated by a fit of hilarity.

A man with beautiful hair sidled up to them and said, “You two have got yourselves into a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?” He had a lovely accent; it came from the part of the world which even then was called Dublin, and had been gone over with the careful modulation of someone who means that people should need to ask him where he had got it. Probably these Englishmen made something occasionally of his barbarous Gaels blood.

Arthur suggested that he get himself out whilst he could; the man with the beautiful hair agreed that was probably for the best, tossed back his drink, and punched Dagr in the face.

That was the signal everyone had needed; they began to throw themselves and whatever projectiles they could get hold of into the general mix with the chaotic glee characteristic of brawls; the man with the beautiful hair proved extraordinarily adept at drinking and stomping people without sacrificing the quality of either. Arthur was busy being throttled by a man (though he was not so wrapped up in it that he didn’t have time to notice that Merlin was about to be clouted over the head, or to scream a warning that he was about to be clouted over the head).

“What do they call you, then?” the man with the beautiful hair asked when it happened that he and Merlin had both taken shelter behind the counter, where Merlin was busy winging plates from the cupboards with his magic, and smashing them into the heads of anyone who approached Arthur with ill intent.

“Merlin,” Merlin told Gwaine.

“Gwaine,” Gwaine told Merlin. They shook. Gwaine finished his current mug, and smashed it into the face of one of Dagr’s cronies.

It was at this moment that Dagr, having manoeuvered himself within killing distance, pulled a dagger on Arthur, who might have felt some mild perturbation over the whole thing, if he had had time; but Gwaine threw himself on the man, and got himself knifed in the thigh for his bravery.

And that was how it came that they brought Gwaine to Camelot slung over Arthur’s horse, and left in their wake a lot of happy villagers, who were recycling their rotten produce courtesy of Dagr’s face, which had been immobilised in the stocks.

  


Dagr was not satisfied with being soundly bested by some poncing young prince; he got himself into Camelot with the assistance of a crystal and the far more lissome form of a young knight who had been invited to the latest melee. And it was Gwaine (and the subtle interference of Merlin’s powers) that was of some assistance in rendering Arthur not most treacherously murdered; but that is not the important part of the story.

The core of it is this: Gwaine found in Merlin the sort of friend who deserved all his vast and canine love, which never flags, and can be kicked about for such a long time, before it even bruises; Merlin found in Gwaine the sort of friend who could be counted upon to always notice when he had tried his very best, and been secretly wounded that no one should acknowledge it. Gwaine did not know about the magic; but he knew Merlin was a good and loyal man, for whom he would give up anything. He knew there was in Merlin the same sharp hunger for validation because there was an unpardonable, unfixable something in him as well, and so it was not his right to be appreciated. There was a mutual love for kitchen hijinks between them; but more so, there was an understanding in Gwaine that Merlin ought to be loved unrestrainedly; and there was an understanding in Merlin that Gwaine ought to be loved unconditionally. They would not have bothered with yelling “no homo” even if it had been the thing in those days; there was no romantic frisson which had to be soundly denied. There was only a deep affection that neither saw any reason in suppressing. So it was that when Gwaine had seen Merlin returned from Certain Demise, he hugged him without shame, and pounded him on the back; and when Gwaine had only just escaped the dread beast Cook, Merlin said “Gwaine!” with unrestrained delight that he was not boiling in her pot, and walked the whole long way back to Gaius’ with his arm about Gwaine’s mailed shoulders.

Gwaine would help him with all his chores; he was a great talker, and kept Merlin laughing for hours, and could have gone on doing it without pause, because it had usually befallen that people sickened of him, rapidly; and Merlin never did. They harried Arthur endlessly by short-sheeting his bed and leaving little creatures of the wet and wriggling variety in his boots; on more than one occasion, they ate most of his breakfast; they made unceasing suggestions while he was trying to write a speech, none of which were helpful, and most of which were crude; they got him roaring drunk in the tavern and put him in one of Morgana’s dresses; and perhaps worst of all, they never did get his bathwater properly heated.

Arthur was outraged at this turn of events. He accompanied Gwen on one of her shopping expeditions into the lower city so he could complain wretchedly about the short-sheeting and the bathwater. He held her basket and occasionally commented on the quality of the produce, so he was not entirely self-centred, but very nearly. Every so often, she nodded and said, “That must have been very difficult for you.” She let him take her arm, to be polite. She was not feeling very polite after an hour of this. She thought he needed a good clap upside the head, but one couldn’t just strike the crown prince, if they fancied whatever limb they had used to land the blow. Finally she said to him: “Look, Arthur, it seems to me you’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset! I’ve had a _cold_ bath nearly a week now.”

“No, I don’t mean like that. I mean you’re afraid Gwaine is going to take your place, that Merlin might like him better than you. You aren’t angry Merlin’s done any of this; you’re angry he’s done it with Gwaine instead of you. But Merlin loves you! He’d do anything for you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Arthur wrinkled up his entire face; it was not very becoming. “Merlin _loves_ me?”

“Oh! Oh not like that! I didn’t mean it like that.” (She meant it like that.) “I mean, the two of you are so close--I don’t mean...you know...I don’t mean it--I just mean...well, yes, I do mean you’re close. He loves you, Arthur, and you love him. You don’t have to be ashamed of that.”

Arthur’s face had not unwrinkled.

Gwen tried to salvage it. “I don’t mean you _love_ love one another, of course not, just that either one of you would do anything for the other and it’s all right to be hurt that he has this rapport with Gwaine. But you can’t let it make you cruel, to either one of them. Merlin--” She paused. She didn’t know what it was about Merlin. She only knew that in him there was some deep ache, and he didn’t like to share it, because if an ache halved is less painful to its bearer, he has still put it onto someone else, and expected that they should carry it on for him. She thought Arthur knew it too, sometimes, unconsciously, because Uther had taught him that was not a thing worth knowing in a man; and he was helpless, and suffered, and loved--and tried to be ignorant of any of it. “Anyway, Merlin is a good man. And he doesn’t give his loyalties lightly, and he doesn’t just take them away. So you ought to keep that in mind. And maybe...be a bit nicer to him? When Gwaine is glad to see Merlin, he just tells him that.”

He wasn’t quite sure what she meant. It was hardly necessary to _say_ , “Merlin! Good to see you, chap”; that was what the dirty wash rag was for. If he had swirled it round Merlin’s face and then squeezed it over the top of his head, it could hardly be interpreted in any other way besides a vast and enduring love for touching Merlin’s face. As men did.

“Maybe you should get him a little something? Just to show your appreciation for him. He does a lot for you, and he never asks for anything.”

“Uh, Gwen, I don’t _buy_ my servants’ friendship.” He said it in a particularly pompous way, and angered her. She did not know, after all, that indeed he tried to buy Merlin’s love all the time, because he thought love a sort of transaction, and his own soul no valuable currency.

“Oh, I suppose because it isn’t worth pursuing? Because after all there isn’t a title attached to it, it won’t get you anywhere?” She took her arm away from him.

“Guenevere,” he said, grabbing her elbow before she could stomp on ahead of him. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I...value the both of you.” He paused. Ah, Arthur, of such vast and dismal emotional incomprehension; but he was trying. “What do you think I should get him?”

There was a little bit of craftiness in Gwen; she tried to determine what a courting man might bring to his chosen love. There was no one who couldn’t appreciate some fresh lady’s glove, picked by the hand of their own thoughtful suitor; but she thought Arthur might consider it too romantic. It was the same for poetry, though she would have liked to be sneaky, and suggest a copy of _Le Roman de la Rose_ ; Merlin liked that sort of thing, and he was a brilliant reader; he wouldn’t mind all the French. But she thought Arthur might know what she had meant by it, and be embarrassed; and it hurt her to think of him realising his secret had already fled, naked and trembling, into the open day, before he had even learnt it himself. She knew it must be something practical, which would make Merlin’s life smoother, and which could have no sentimental fancy attached to it.

Arthur wanted to give him a belt. If he had been on his own, he probably would have got the very book Gwen wanted to suggest, because he knew Merlin liked that sort of thing; but he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. People could misinterpret something like that.

“A belt?” Gwen asked, the same way you would ask someone why they had just put on their trousers backward.

“It’s useful, it’s something he’s in dire need of, considering the state of his current one, and--”

Gwen could not contain herself; she interrupted him. “Yes, but... I dunno. It doesn’t seem very...thoughtful? It doesn’t really say ‘Merlin, I appreciate you’. I’m sure he would love it, all the same!” she interjected, because Arthur’s face had fallen rather despairingly. “But I’m not sure it’s quite right.”

She was trying to figure out how to mention the flowers, without putting up his back; there must be some way of leading him round to it, by making him think he was very clever, and had dreamt it up himself, and that it was only a thing most princes (the handsomest and most gracious, anyway) did for their faithful employees. And then Arthur said, frowning off into the sun, “He says his room’s drafty.”

“What?”

“He complains about his room being drafty. I could...put something round the window, to hold the heat in better.”

She wanted to clasp her hands and say, “Oh, Arthur!” and fling her arms about him; she felt all the warm melting a good gesture does to one’s insides, as if it were aimed at her.

She smiled at him instead.

  


And that was how he was caught in Merlin’s room, putting up strips of tinder round the frame, after he’d packed the gaps full of straw. He looked at Merlin in some desperation; Merlin looked at him in some befuddlement.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asked.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied. “What are you doing?”

“It’s my room.”

“Precisely. Shouldn’t you be off doing chores or something?”

Merlin tilted his head. Arthur tilted his back.

“Are you fixing my window?”

“No, I was…” Arthur could not think of a good lie. He was not supposed to be _caught out_ doing thoughtful things; people tended to expect them once they knew who they were to be attributed to. He forgot that the whole point of the endeavor was to show Merlin what a cherished friend he was, and that Arthur’s cherishing was certainly more devout, and more worthy of reciprocation than someone else’s; say, Gwaine’s.

It is a tragic indictment of his childhood that he was embarrassed to be caught in the act of loving a friend. Merlin knew it, and did not want to startle or shame him. Oh, what a soft, soft heart, and what the world would do to it. So it was that when Arthur gave up, and said, “You were whingeing about your room being drafty," Merlin smiled the same smile he would give to Arthur in his last moments, so that Arthur would know it was all right to leave him. We musn’t call it frail; there is such a lot of strength in someone who smiles when there is weeping inside them.

I don’t suppose he would have been so overcome, if he had not foreseen something of what awaited his friend. He knew the man who was only just not a boy had a great Fate in store for him, and now, when he looked on him, slightly buffoonish, with straw in his hair, and a little sheepish wrinkle between his brows, Merlin realised what finity there was in this moment, in this friendship; for he might have a prince mostly to himself, but a king must always be shared.

Probably it was then he realised for certain he did not love Arthur as a liege, or even a mate.

He said, “You know, Arthur, sometimes you’re almost not a prat.”

Arthur said, “You know, Merlin, sometimes you’re almost not an idiot.” That was as far as they could go. They looked at one another with such a great lot in their eyes.

This account is the tragedy of King Arthur of Camelot. There is the overarching catastrophe of prejudice, and what evil it makes of common man. But it should not be considered less grievous, this small moment of love. It can never be small, that there should be a Church between love, or all the various classifications by which humankind pretends it is better or lesser, thanks to its lineage.

  


We must now address the Sir Lancelot business. At this stage he is not yet Sir Lancelot; he is only Lancelot, or even ‘Lance’, to the people he loves. It came to be on a bright Saturday morning that he was headed to Camelot, to seek his Destiny, and heard shouting in the woods outside it.

The shouting was from Merlin, who had been gathering medicinal mushrooms, and found himself in the path of a boar who considered his right to the mushrooms of far greater import, since he had a tusk and Merlin had only a leather collection bag, and the undignified howl he was sending up.

Ordinarily he would have been accompanied by at least Gwaine, and possibly Arthur as well, who would hardly have let a little thing like princes being above menial labour give Gwaine another opportunity to insinuate himself into Merlin’s affections (and anyway, he hardly did any picking of mushrooms on these outings, since there were far better tasks which needed to be tackled, such as flicking Merlin on the ear whilst he was absorbed in his herbs). But as Gaius’ request for the replenishment of his diminished Reishi stock had overlapped with training, Merlin was out on his own when his life intersected suddenly and unexpectedly with that of the boar’s. He sent out a hot gout of magic from his veins when the boar charged, and deflected its tusk from a fatal stick; but he and the bag of mushrooms had gone wildly flying into the brush, and he naturally sent up a yell at finding himself suddenly in the bramble, with a mad beast rustling about after him, highly perturbed that it had failed in its first murderous pass.

It was this part of the fight that Lancelot heard; he came running. He would not have been much of a legendary hero, if he had shrugged and kept walking. And it was not merely obligation: that was what made him different from so many of the men who came to try their mettle in the court of Uther Pendragon. The fairytales of his no-so-distant childhood had not put compassion into Lancelot; if anything, it was he who put compassion into them, seeing it in everything, and finding it wherever he looked, the way some men can. That was the difference between him and Gwaine: Gwaine merely hoped for it; and Lancelot believed in it, the way one knows a deity. So while most knights errant (or wannabe knights errant) would have ignored a man’s scream altogether, and a fair number of them would have ignored a woman’s, if it sounded fat, or too reedy, he came at a sprint, because his fellow man had cried out, and his fellow man deserved better than whatever it was that had so induced it to keen.

Merlin sent the boar sailing out of the bramble with another blast of magic; he had not been looking round when he did this. He was naturally concerned with not dying, and had forgotten to check that no one had noticed him engaged in the practise of sorcery.

Lancelot had seen it, and said nothing; he struck the boar a great blow with the sword at his belt, so neatly that Merlin, only half-cognisant of the presence of another human, stopped being concerned about his mortality, as he did not have enough time for it as well as his awe.

He did not realise Lancelot knew about the magic; Lancelot only said, “You all right?” as if Merlin was of his fellow race, and entitled to live the same as any of them. He gave Merlin a hand up.

By necessity this would later be struck out of Merlin; he would be too experienced, too grieved, too old in his heart, where age first sows its murdering frosts. But for now he was still a little childish in his admiration for people who could do grand things, probably because he thought himself only a support pillar in the narratives of others.  

“That was _brilliant_ ! You just came out of nowhere, and struck it, _bam_ \--I don’t think Arthur could have done it any better. Wow, just really--I’m Merlin!” He clasped arms with Lancelot, who was somewhat thunderstruck by this tumbling monologue.

“Lance,” he said, forgetting to be more formal, because Merlin was beaming all over his face once more, and it was hard to put him at that arms length of polite courtesy which is natural between strangers; it was hard to be a stranger to Merlin.

They walked back to Camelot together, Merlin chattering the whole way. Lancelot, who was as painfully shy as if he had been horrifically ugly, was grateful that it was not necessary for him to do much more than nod, and occasionally smile. He did not mention the magic; he did not see why it should be discussed at the moment. He did not suppose anyone should be punished for practising what self-defense is necessary to keep themselves in this earthly realm.

When Merlin mentioned Arthur, Lancelot changed; he did not suddenly gain his tongue. But he had come to serve beneath the prince, and already worshipped him with the inflamed devotion of a subject who will gladly die before the feet of their God. When he was a weedy teenager, the prince, hardly older, had come to his village at the head of his knights, and they had slain a great enemy of the People. And the prince, golden, courteous, kneeing his horse onward with the reins between his teeth, had dispatched the raiders who’d killed his mother with such courage and aplomb that Lancelot deified him. It is hard to fall out of love with a hero we have seen in our youth, and never seen again; he has never had time to grow warts.

So it was that when Merlin mentioned Arthur, Lancelot said, “I have come to serve as his champion,” in a voice that nearly broke. Gwaine had only begrudgingly accepted Arthur, mostly because Merlin liked him, and after all, he wasn’t such a bad chap, for a rich Englishman. But Lancelot had never seen Arthur shoot wine out his nose, and did not know that his feet smelled; he was in the first unblemished stages of his infatuation. Some men need a Cause for which to live and die; perhaps they are also broken, in a less obvious way. It is usually so that someone who has to live for others has found in himself an insurmountable flaw. He must latch onto something else, and hold it with all the bruising force of desperation, till Death reap it from his hands. Lancelot had taken hold of Camelot, and Arthur.

Merlin thought he was a bit intense, especially about Arthur, who had the most foul morning breath, and stuck his feet in Merlin’s face when he had just taken off his boots; but otherwise he was smashing. He ran to tell Arthur straightaway that he had a candidate for the Knights of Camelot, and he wouldn’t find one better.

There was one slight sticky bit: the Knights had to be of noble blood, by decree of the king; and Merlin had found during their walk that Lancelot was only a common man like himself. This was nothing that could not be mended by a little magical forgery, though Lancelot strongly protested it, and took his seal of nobility with much wringing of his hands; he did not have Merlin’s lackadaisical approach to rules he did not personally like.  

Arthur was highly perturbed that Merlin had adopted another man with fabulous hair. If it befell that he now had to divide Merlin’s affection by three, he was going to do something unprincely; especially as he had not yet recovered from the discovery that Gwaine was a marginally better shot than him, and had taken a pheasant that Arthur had missed. He was not sure what the unprincely thing was, till he punched Lancelot in the face when Merlin presented him, and felt a vicious glee that perhaps Merlin should not be so keen on him now that he had been bested, and his nose a little mussed. “Sloppy. Unprepared. You’d be dead on a battlefield. Come back when you’ve got the reflexes of a man rather than a cow.”

Merlin was fussing over Lancelot, who was lying on his back, blinking up into the sun. That was irritating, but Arthur had given up on trying to force Merlin out of his tendency to be everyone’s mother.

Now, Gwen had measured Lancelot for his new nobleman’s garb, and brought him some finished pieces that evening, whilst Merlin was fetching him soup, and telling him all about how Arthur was a prat, and he needn’t worry about it. Merlin smiled when Gwen slipped into his room, and then went back to what he was doing; but Lancelot had been arrested. All the various mechanisms of him had forgot to quicken, and the humours to flow; he had got the breath down into him, and now could not get it back out.

It was some bored poet who dreamt the notion of love at first sight into the monochrome palette of his drab existence. We must often spin haunted woodlands round ourselves, and people them with maidens of windswept cheek. We have forgotten, because we have become accustomed to it, Nature in all its buttery fruitfulness, the richness of it, the fat moon behind coy stratocumulus, and the crepitating movements of all the sleepless world. What slow light through soft dawn, and whispered bend of wintering blossom, laying down its summer mortality.

No, the world is quite stunning enough, without this rubbish concept, which requires the shallow deference of lust to masquerade as something of the soul.

We cannot, then, in good conscience say that it was love at first sight for Gwen and Lancelot. But certainly there was a magnetism, and there is nothing wrong with that. They both had trouble getting their tongues in working order; Gwen asked him thrice if what she had brought was satisfactory, because the first time she bungled it, and the second Lancelot stared at her like a frightened rabbit, and she thought maybe he had not heard, or else Arthur had hit him rather harder than anyone suspected.

Slowly they talked, and became animated; slowly they realised it would be all right to smile at the other, and to stare with dreaming eyes. Lancelot found it immensely arousing that Gwen could talk sword form, and then blushed; and Gwen found it immensely arousing that he had blushed, and blushed herself.

Merlin watched this with careful consideration. He was still of the impression that Gwen had captured Arthur’s slow-witted affections, and knew that he had to nip this in the bud. Lancelot was consistently considerate, and handsome, and kind, which put Arthur at a serious disadvantage, since he was only consistently handsome. He tried clearing his throat whilst they were talking of armour, and staring with the loving revelation of kindred souls into one another’s eyes. They ignored him. He said, “You know, Arthur just the other day--” and then stopped, because Arthur just the other day had thrown a bucket of water into his face, and he didn’t feel especially compelled to extol that Arthur. But neither could he endure it if Arthur should be hurt, even if it were his own dollopheaded fault, for not kissing Gwen better.

He said, “Arthur--” and stopped again, because both of them were wholly unaware that he was still in the room. They had clicked, gently, but incontrovertibly.

He sighed and went to sit with Gaius. “I hope Arthur has something better than terrible poetry up his sleeve.”

“And why would you hope that?” Gaius asked absentmindedly, eating his soup as he leafed through an herbal text.

“Look at them, Gaius! Arthur loves Gwen, and he’s about to lose her because he’s a terrible clot about this sort of thing, and wouldn’t know how to romance her if I sent all the flowers for him, and wrote all the little notes and whatnot--which I have.”

Gaius looked up from his soup, and squinted at his pupil. “Arthur loves _Gwen_ , you say? How ever did you come to _that_ conclusion?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“You can just tell,” Merlin replied, watching Gwen laugh in a decidedly besotted way at something Lancelot had said.

“Ah,” said Gaius, who knew better. “Well, Merlin, I think you ought to leave it alone; it isn’t as if Arthur can _act_ on any affections he may harbour for Gwen.” He thought he might for once persuade his pupil to let well enough alone, before anyone was imprisoned.

“Right,” Merlin said, with that note of distraction in his voice which Gaius knew meant he had already developed a plan exactly opposite to the advice he had just been granted, and was now deciding how to implement it.

Gaius sighed.

  


Guenevere and Lancelot have been much maligned for their contributions to the tragedy of King Arthur of Camelot, but these charges are grossly unfair; the truth is there was nothing between Arthur and Gwen but abiding fondness, and that Lancelot would die terribly young, with the flesh of him hardly well-lived. So many of them would die young, with their bones yet unbent by unrelenting clocks.

What happened was no more than this: Lancelot left Camelot not because he was mad, but because Uther unravelled the lie of his heritage. Merlin had persuaded Arthur that Lancelot was worth induction into the Knights after all, and upon testing him, Arthur found that to survive the minute which he challenged all the restless wannabes of noble Camelot to stand against him, he had to fight harder, and more cleverly, than he had fought in a very long time. He decided even a new devotee of Merlin could be forgiven, if he handled a sword like that.

Uther did not agree; it did not matter what a poor man could _do_ ; it mattered who he was. 

Merlin wanted to take responsibility for his role in the whole debacle; he thought Lancelot might be executed, based on the righteous fury of Uther, who obviously could not abide it that a commoner should pretend to be better. But Arthur had thrown in on the side of Lancelot, because he knew the law to be unjust, and could not let his conscience go quietly into the night, without letting it speak before his father, though it be in cold terror.

Merlin waited tensely on the other side of the door for them to have it out. “I got you into this, I’ll tell them--”

“No,” Lancelot said, quietly. He dropped his voice. “You used magic to do it, didn’t you?”

Merlin snapped round to look at him. For a moment he could not possibly have said anything. He had lied for so long about his magic that denial should have sprung easily to his lips; but inside of him was a sudden give. He cannot be blamed for hearing the sympathy in Lancelot’s voice, and thinking in his very human weakness that it would be so nice, so _bloody_ nice for someone to know, and still look at him as if he were only just silly old Merlin. “No. What on earth would give you that idea?” he asked at last.

“The boar. I saw you. You used magic to fight it off. Merlin,” Lancelot said, very gently. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. But you musn’t risk anyone asking questions about how you managed it.”

So it was that Lancelot was banned, instead of killed; Arthur had managed to do that much for him.

And so it was that Merlin watched him ride off into the sunset, with Gwen beside him, the both of them feeling in them the hollowness of unspent promise.

  


There is something else of great significance that has been expunged from history. We have started with a tournament, and we shall end with one.

It was a wet and dismal winter, which Merlin and Arthur passed by half-heartedly bickering with one another, and then sitting together in front of the fire, gossiping like old women about the castle dynamics. Arthur had contrived to have Merlin to himself in the evenings by putting Gwaine on guard duty, and took these moments to look often at Merlin’s ridiculous ears, and laugh too loudly at his jokes. He thought, sometimes: if only it could go on like this. And he knew it couldn’t, and moved his chair closer to Merlin’s when Merlin wasn’t looking, and in the lethargic heat of his chambers drowsed here and there on Merlin’s shoulder, when they had passed their second winds discussing something of import only to them. Arthur, if we are honest, was afraid of his encroaching coronation, and the things it would take from him. He would lose his father, first; and afterward this slow torpidity of leisure a king cannot afford. It would yet take some time for the consciousness of him to catch on; but the vast and dreamless bits of him that divine all knew that above himself he loved Camelot; and above that he loved Merlin.

But we cannot remain forever ignorant of something as momentous as love. It is too big, too ungentle, too insistently persistent.

It befell on one sere day whilst the sun slept that the rulers of the five kingdoms clattered into the courtyard of Camelot with all their various processions in tow. Arthur and Uther were watching from the battlements, Uther with a distinct tension round his eyes. “Father, we’re not going into battle. You don’t have to look so somber,” Arthur said, wanting in some way to make himself invaluable; Uther had still not forgiven him for the unexpected betrayal in the Lancelot business. There was nothing at which to shake his sword (in fact the whole point was precisely the opposite), and so he tried, clumsily, with his damaged comprehension of human comfort, to be reassuring.

“Never before have the rulers of the five kingdoms come together in this way. Never before have we all worked towards the same aim, towards peace. If these talks are successful, Camelot will enter a new era of prosperity. If they fail, we will almost certainly be at war,” Uther said, clenching his fist.

As you may have guessed, certain factions had a vested interest in the latter. If we are to be specific: King Alined and his jester Trickler, who had no desire for anything like prosperity for Camelot. Now, among the five kings was one Olaf, who was in possession of both a beautiful daughter, and a terrible lust for revenge against anyone who should lay hand to her. He might not have worried about Arthur, who was besides already being spoken for, highly unimpressed by the Lady Vivian’s abuse against her chambers, and her abuse against Gwen, who had been assigned as her maid. But a love charm is hardly concerned with any of that, and Trickler placed one on him, so it was that Arthur suddenly progressed from denigrating her, to lauding her, quite overnight. Merlin said, “Right,” and gave Arthur the sort of look you give your mate when he’s off his head next morning when Arthur flung open the shutters on the window, and noted how surpassingly beautiful the day was, because there had been draped over it all the gloss and glitter of his enduring love.

It was not like Arthur to be so free with his feelings, and certainly not like him to enjoy any morning, when usually it was that he had to be rolled out of his bed, and then rolled out of his blankets when the whole lot of them, prince and coverings, had been transferred to the floor, and Arthur sandwiched moodily in the midst of this snarl, grumbling about the light in his eyes.

“Well, maybe you ought to tell Gwen all this. You know you almost lost her to Lancelot?”

“I don’t see why she should care one way or the other,” Arthur replied, skipping out of his room, which Merlin found somewhat odd, for a number of reasons. He spun about when he was only halfway into the corridor, calling, “Feelings!! How do I--Merlin, you must know a great lot about the subject--”

“Being a girl, I know,” Merlin finished for him.

“No! Being such a considerate, thoughtful man--and with those cheekbones you must have loads of experience getting women, of course.”

“Er, what?” Merlin asked, articulately.

“How do I win my love, Merlin?”

“I, uh--Arthur, are you feeling all right?”

“Wonderful! I’ve never been better in my entire life, Merlin! I mean, really, my whole entire life! Isn’t love grand?”

It was at this moment Gwaine popped round the corner of the hall, pulling up his gloves. “Morning, Merlin, Princess,” he said, because it never failed to get a rise out of Arthur. Arthur, however, turned to Gwaine with a beatific smile, clapped him on the back, and said “Gwaine!” with such an outpouring of delight that Gwaine stepped backward, out of concern that such lunacy might be infectious. He looked at Merlin. Merlin looked at him. Their eyes said to one another, WT _F_ , mate??

“The Lady Vivian must like flowers, right? Oh, Merlin, tell me which ones I shall pick for the light of my life, the sunshine of my overcast heart, the ecstasy of my...tart...art--Merlin, what rhymes with ‘heart’--oh! The ecstasy of my parts!” Arthur declared, beaming at them both.

Gwaine’s right eyebrow had convulsions. He aimed it in great concern at Merlin, who had been momentarily struck dumb. “The Lady _Vivian_ ? I thought you were talking about Gwen? I thought you _hated_ the Lady Vivian? Last night you said Olaf would drop anyone who so much as looked at her into boiling oil, and that was a preferable fate to spending in her company even what little time courtesy demands you devote to her.”

“What? I would never say that about the kindest, most beautiful, charming, witty, wisest creature in all the five kingdoms.”

Merlin grabbed Arthur by the wrists and pulled him back into his room. “Arthur,” he said, searching his friend’s face for some indication of what precisely had gone so terribly wrong inside of him. “Why don’t you stay here? Get...cleaned up. For the Lady Vivian. Em...write some of that poetry you do so well for her.”

“Sure don’t forget the bit about your parts,” Gwaine interjected.

Merlin elbowed him. “Gwaine and I are going to go and pick some flowers. I know just the thing. You wait here, all right?”

“Right you are!” Arthur crowed. “You’re a good friend, Merlin. The best friend a man could ask for. When the Lady Vivian and I are blissfully wedded, I want you to come and live with us. Raise our children. Be always at our sides,” Arthur said, and hugged Merlin, and buried his face in his neck, and carried on in such a way that one might have to wonder if the charm had got into difficulties, trying to combat the true course of Arthur’s heart.

“Well, he’s tit-faced, isn’t he?” Gwaine said as they closed the door behind them, and started off down the corridor. “Why didn’t you ask me to the tavern with you? If he’s still absolutely baloobas next morning, you lads must have had yourselves a grand night.”

“He isn’t drunk. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“What’s wrong with him is a love charm,” Gaius proclaimed, upon observing Arthur sulking in his chamber after a sound rejection by the Lady Vivian, who did not much care that he was handsome, or rich, or that he had glowing recommendations from his right hand. Merlin had uncovered a lock of the Lady Vivian’s hair beneath his pillow, which Arthur had kissed in a passionate way that made them all vaguely uncomfortable, and then tucked into his tunic, so that it could lie next to his heart. “I’ll have to figure out how to break it. Just keep an eye on him, Merlin; we needn’t be too concerned for the moment, if the Lady Vivian is not inclined to return his affections.”

The Lady Vivian _was_ inclined to return his affections, after a little more meddling from King Alined and Trickler. Trying to keep Arthur from his great love was like watching a toddler who has just discovered that before them there is all the shining world, and it must be put into their mouth. Gwaine and Merlin ran after him continuously, snagging him by the back of his tunic, and saying things like, “Whoa there, you mad eejit” in Gwaine’s case, and “Arthur, _sit_ ” in Merlin’s case. They had to take a number of things out of his hands: a sword which he mournfully threatened to fall on, if he should be separated from the only thing that mattered to him; a handful of bluebells from the vase on his writing table, which he went about strewing over the bed, and the floor, and Gwaine’s fabulous hair; the fire poker, which he tried to use to brand the Lady Vivian’s name into his arm; and lastly a piece of firewood he kept ineptly trying to whittle into the shape of a heart with his best dagger.

Gwaine and Merlin sat down on the edge of Arthur's bed together, leaning on one another. They were both knackered. They had never planned to raise a child together, much less a 23-year-old one with the strength of a bull, and the stamina of a 23-year-old. Arthur was now quietly doodling on the parchment Merlin had given him, and occasionally as a rest from this he would stare dreamily out the window, sighing longingly.

Unfortunately, he was destined to eventually get away, as toddlers always somehow escape their handlers, and then a great lot of fuss is made over them, till they are found in the midst of some naughtiness. Arthur’s naughtiness was this: he had scaled the tower to Lady Vivian’s tower, with a rose between his teeth, tumbled onto the floor, and then proceeded to ravish her. They were caught inhaling one another’s faces by King Olaf himself. It was naturally unpleasant to find your daughter using an unladylike amount of tongue on the rouge who no doubt had most rougeishly misled her into dirty, dirty sin. He threw down his gauntlet at Arthur’s feet, which Arthur happily accepted, since it was a perfectly good deal to perish bravely in the name of your all-consuming love.

“How did you let this happen?” Gaius demanded when Gwaine and Merlin came to confess their failure.

“I’m sorry, Gaius! We fell asleep. We didn’t mean to, only he was such a handful.”

“Well, all hope of peace is now ruined. This could mean war, Merlin. And more pressing for the moment: Arthur could _die_. He’s hardly in the frame of mind to fight Olaf.”

“Well, there has to be some way to lift the spell, right?”

“I’m looking, my boy. There are hundreds of love spells, and not much less that involve a lock of hair.”

Whilst he was looking, Arthur went to battle for his lady. It was to be done in this way: there would be a tourney of three stages, with quarterstaff, with mace, with sword. It was to the death, as these matters of honour always were. Arthur fought poorly. He fought exceptionally poorly, actually. He was busy blowing kisses to the Lady Vivian in the stands, and weighing whether she should be called Mrs Arthur Pendragon, or Mrs Arthur of Camelot; he thought both had a nice ring. He thought if she should insist upon it, he would even be happy to take her own name instead; Mr Arthur Lady Vivian had its own pleasant reverberation. He was stabbed through the shoulder by King Olaf’s quarterstaff.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, afterward shaking him in the tent where he was bandaged and banged back together between stages. “You have to pay attention. Olaf is going to _kill_ you, you idiot.”

“That’s all right,” Arthur said with perfect equanimity. “It’s very pleasant to die for your true love. You should try it some time, Merlin.” For a moment Merlin had to strictly wrestle the urge to slap Arthur across the face with one of his own gloves, and scream at him, “I nearly have, over and over again, you mincing _tit_.” He got himself in hand, and treated Arthur’s shoulder wound. It was not promising, but there was nothing else to be done. One could hardly say, “Yeah, sorry about the attempt on your daughter’s virginity, mate; shake hands and be done with it?” and cancel the whole affair. He set his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “Arthur--just. Be careful out there. Remember your footwork. Don’t just stand round like a plonker, like last time, yeah?”

Arthur looked at him with a sudden fondness; there must have been some conscious part of him, however small, that remembered Lady Vivian was a roaring arsemonger, and Merlin his favourite human. He smiled, in a way he had not smiled for Lady Vivian. “You take such good care of me, Merlin,” he said quietly.

They were staring platonically into one another’s eyes when Gwaine burst into the tent. “Gaius has it,” he panted. “It has to be broken with a kiss from his true love.”

“What has to be broken with a kiss from my lady?” Arthur asked, holding out his arms for Merlin to resituate the armour he had removed to look at Arthur’s wound.

“Gwen!” Merlin cried out, spinning round to Gwaine. “Go and get Gwen. Quick!”

Gwaine, who had not suspected as much as Gaius, nevertheless had an inkling in which direction Arthur’s heart had tumbled arse over tip. But you couldn’t say that to your mate, and embarrass him in front of his fellow. “Back in a moment, me lads.”

But Arthur was already being called back out into the arena, where he and King Olaf were now expected to attempt a lot of murder with their maces. Merlin watched tensely, one fist at his mouth. Arthur was fecking about again, as Gwaine would have said, waving jauntily to the crowd, and tightening the Lady Vivian’s favour on his arm. He had his collarbone broken by the mace, and limped back into the tent, whilst the Lady Vivian fanned herself deliriously.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin cried out, and caught him when he stumbled. He was still holding him under the armpits when Gwen was led into the tent, looking frazzled.

“What’s happened to him?” she demanded, rushing forward as Merlin heaved him half-conscious onto the stool where he sat to be dressed and otherwise fussed over. “What is going on, Merlin? Gwaine said you needed me urgently? I don’t understand.”

“He’s had a love charm cast on him. That’s why he’s doing this. Gaius said the only way to break it is true love’s kiss. That’s you, Gwen. Arthur loves you. It’s our only chance. Olaf is going to kill him if this goes on.”

“I have to kiss him?” Gwen said, looking at Gwaine.

“It shouldn’t be so bad,” Gwaine assured her.

“Merlin, I really don’t think...well, um...Arthur and I, that was just--it was once. It didn’t go very well. I’m so sorry, but I don’t think--Merlin, it isn’t...well. I just think, I can’t help you. I’m sorry. There was nothing, you know...to it. Neither of us felt anything.”

“But Arthur went on and on about it for days. It’s you, Gwen. It has to be,” Merlin said, with a crack in his voice. Gwaine was prepared to do it himself, if it should get the agony out of his friend.

Gwen was similarly won over. She could not bring herself to say, in front of Gwaine, with all of Camelot ranged outside the tent, that it ought to be Merlin who kissed him, if it was a true and undying affection which was necessary. She wrung her hands. She bit her lip. She said, “Oh, all right” and held Arthur by his fevered cheeks, and looked into his drowsily blinking eyes.

Gaius had slipped unobtrusively into the tent at this moment, and watched their lips meet with the cold clinicality of a knight going about the mundane fetch-and-carry bits of his quest, when all the maidens have the audacity to be doing other things, and not a one can be found pining out tower windows, with her hair cast poetically over the sills.

Gwen pulled away. Arthur held a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Let’s not tell my lady about this. Ouch!” he said, as the movement had pulled his shoulder, and jarred his collarbone. “Merlin, what happened? Did you push me out of the bed again?”

Merlin had put all his faith into this moment, and that is a terrible thing to be robbed of.

His face collapsed. Gwaine had never seen any poor bastard in all the taverns in all the kingdoms in greater distress. He wished Merlin’s grief were a thing with corporeality, that it might be stabbed.

“Gwaine, would you step outside, please, and ensure that no one enters the tent?” Gaius asked with a great gentleness in his tone. He was not sure how to broach the whole painful mass of this; but he knew it would need to be done tenderly, with a deft and sympathetic hand. “Gwen, I’ll need you to go with him.”

They left without fuss. It is certain that Gwen knew what was about to happen, and that Gwaine strongly suspected.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Merlin asked, holding Arthur by the wrists away from the dog rose tucked into his neckerchief, which Arthur wanted to give to the Lady Vivian, so she would have something to remember him by if he died most nobly at the hands of her father.

“Merlin,” Gaius said with the utmost care, “perhaps we’re looking at this the wrong way. Perhaps...we’ve fixated on a romantic connection. Perhaps it need only be someone who cares very deeply about Arthur, and whom Arthur himself cares very deeply about in return.”

Merlin was clumsy, and romantically oblivious, and not even Arthur would have been as surprised to learn of the volatile passions in his master’s breast, and which direction they were inclined. But he recognised the look Gaius was giving him. “Gaius, you can’t mean--oh no. Arthur would _kill_ me.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Arthur said, trying to plait together the strands of hair he had just yanked from his head. “I quite like you, actually. Not, of course, as much as the Lady Vivian, but you’re handsome, and kind, and my life is significantly better for your presence in it.”

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

Merlin spluttered. “He’s _enchanted_ ! He thinks everything’s wonderful right now! He was nice to _Gwaine_ earlier, Gaius. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He has feelings for Gwen--he told me so himself. It won’t work, and then Arthur will stab me, not that that matters, I suppose. ‘Merlin, clean the leech tank; Merlin, kiss Arthur.’ And I never get a say, or a day off, it’s only Merlin, do this at your great peril, Merlin do that, Merlin--”

“Are you quite done?” Gaius asked. “Whilst you’re complaining, King Olaf is waiting to take off his head. Perhaps it won’t work after all, but we haven’t much of a _choice_ , Merlin. Either we break this charm, or Arthur dies. And I think you can appreciate what a significant dent that will put in the peace talks.”

Merlin clasped his hands together. He took a turn round the tent. He turned back to Arthur. He said, “All right.” He took such a long breath.

In another source of far greater historical accuracy than that which we have set out to rectify, the author says of his protagonists, ‘Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.’ It is obviously unnecessary to explain that this was not one of the five. Firstly, Arthur had his eyes wide open. Secondly, he was in the midst of composing a terrible lyric to the Lady Vivian. Lastly, Merlin knew he had to get out of sword range quickly, which meant that instead of giving Arthur a proper kiss as the spell had probably intended, he darted his face in the general direction of Arthur’s face, smashed his lips against the part of Arthur’s lower jaw where it could be reasonably presumed that Arthur’s own lips resided, and got the hell out.

Nevertheless, it worked.

Arthur snapped his head back. He stared at Merlin in great alarm. His eyes had expanded to take up most of his face; the rest of him had ceased to function. His heart had taken up a sudden and hot inhabitation in his throat.

“What the _hell_ are you doing, Merlin?!” he yelled.

“Sire,” Gaius intervened. “How do you feel about the Lady Vivian?”

“ _What_ ? Who _cares_ about the Lady Vivian? Merlin’s just _kissed_ me, and you’re asking a lot of stupid rot about the _Lady Vivian_ ? Are you _mad_?” he demanded, spinning on Merlin in such a fury that Merlin ducked. Gaius, who knew Arthur would sooner put them to his own breast than raise arms against Merlin, massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Erm...no?” Merlin replied.

There is a satisfactory conclusion, naturally. Arthur fought a mighty battle against the King Olaf, and made him acceptable terms, and the peace talks were salvaged, and the five kingdoms united. But the consequences for this event were twofold, and the first was that Arthur thought Merlin was cracked, and the second was that Merlin thought Arthur was a pillock. So they went about for quite a while, neither very happy with the other.

  


They ought to have savoured so much more. But young people never do see an ending when there is the nubile present, hot in their veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the return of Lancelot, Queen Morgause, Mordred, and the downfall of Morgana. Also, because I can never shut the fuck up, this may be expanded to four parts. I'm trying to keep the individual chapters somewhat shorter than my usual, so that I don't have quite so much to edit all at once. I wasn't quite as successful with this one. Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy. Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated.


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess I lied about Lancelot returning in this bit; I got distracted by other plot twists. I promise he'll be back, though! Also, you may have noticed that this fic has now been expanded to five parts, on account of an inability to STFU. Thank you to those of you who have commented and left kudos; it makes my day to see an alert in my inbox. A brief warning: there's some rather disturbing content involving a child. Nothing sexual, and nothing super graphic, but if you've read 'TOAFK', you know that Morgause is an extraordinarily wretched mother, and that her children consequently are supremely fucked up.

To our great consternation, we must open the following part with a tragedy. It had unfortunately to happen sooner or later, considering the nature of history.

This will seem a very small grief, comparatively. But we ought not to downplay our hurts, because society has determined that grief is a thing that must be ranked, and experienced accordingly. We are supposed to grieve by other men’s clocks, when in fact it has set its own individual watch in all our individual hearts, and expects that we abide by it.

But we must not rush on ahead of ourselves. It is first necessary to establish the relations between Arthur and Merlin at this point of the narrative, which sounds tawdry, and you may now be thinking perhaps that you have finally got to the porn, which is the only reason we are here in the first place; and you have certainly sat through more than enough prattle to have earned some penis.

There was not at this time any porn. This tragedy happened not long after the tournament, and the kiss; in fact Arthur still had his arm in a sling.

Arthur was desperately upset about the kiss. In all matters of technicality, it had been perfectly awful; whereas Gwen’s had had a romantic light flare, and the commonly accepted quantity of tongue.

But he could not stop thinking about the former. It had not been so quick that he failed to notice that Merlin’s lips were soft, or the way Merlin had touched the nape of his neck, briefly, whilst positioning them both hastily in a way which would put their faces on a vaguely similar trajectory. He had felt the fingers on the hairs there. He still felt them, in fact. He was regularly dressed and undressed by the same fingers, so it might be suspected that perhaps he had suddenly swallowed some bit of romance, or one of those adulatory poems that deifies every limb, and clothes in purple swaddling of baroque prose all the banal humanities which we all have to lug round. He had taken neither. It was only the fingers did not touch him like _that_ whilst they were dressing and undressing him. It was all quite proper, and antiseptic, the way a physical with our doctor does not particularly rouse us, unless we are that dark and sinister part of the internet into which we have all strayed occasionally, and hastily closed out of before our mum can look over our shoulders.

The fingers had not touched him for long; after all, Merlin had yanked himself out of range just as quickly as if he had spelled himself to a safe distance. But we never must feel anything like that for long to assimilate every stray nuance of it into our troubled unconscious. He could tell you this about the whole experience, in order of importance:

  * Merlin’s fingers had been very warm
  * They had the same roughened texture of his calloused own
  * They had stumbled into that boundary when the hair ceases to be hair and becomes down and jerked, as if burned
  * They had pressed only the very tips of themselves into his flesh



He did not understand how to sort out any of it. He went round being stony about the whole thing, and quite ignoring Merlin, who had been similarly shaken, but would have liked to be rather more cordial about it, and perhaps to try it again. This was not a conscious desire, because he had invested all his waking rationale into hating Arthur, who was being an awful wanker over having had his troublesome arse saved _once again_ by his unflagging and underappreciated servant.

Arthur did not talk to him for some three days, which was an extraordinary amount of time, and it put them both off, and spoilt their appetites besides. Gwaine was only a drunkard, not an eejit, and he had a fair guess as to the foundation of this misery, and tried to bring them together, clumsily and often. It must be supposed that he did not condone homosexuality, which would then have been called sodomy; but he did condone Merlin’s happiness. He could not be particularly arsed if they loved one another in the way that men and women were supposed to love one another, unless it interrupted their hunting, or he had to hold someone’s knickers while they made use of the woods’ natural privacy.

Gwen tried more adeptly, and just as often, to bring them together. She could often be found plotting with Gwaine, a co-conspirator which anyone should consider themselves privileged to have, since he had little shame, and less inhibitions.

It is true that two heads are better than one, particularly when mischief is in the works. But the result was just the same as if they had done nothing at all: Arthur continued to storm about in a foul mood, and Merlin continued to yell things like, “Well, be that way, you prat!” when Arthur ignored a tentative attempt at small talk, or threw his clothes onto Merlin’s bed when he was out gathering herbs, instead of shoving them into Merlin’s face, and then strutting about a bit, as was his usual M.O.

It is difficult to determine how long this might have gone on (Arthur, as we have already said, was desperately upset about the kiss, and his equilibrium, which it had thrown off, and probably, if he were being honest with himself, which he never was, he was most upset that Merlin had no doubt taken away from the whole thing that Arthur was a rubbish kisser, when he hadn’t been ready, and it was _rude_ , unconscionably rude, to kiss people when they weren’t ready, and hadn’t had time to check their breath). They had passed something like a week with nothing more than a terse exchange here and there, till at last one day Merlin, straightening up the various personal and impersonal items which Arthur threw about with the mad insouciance of someone who did not have to pick them up, suddenly blurted out, “Gaius made me!”

Arthur was sprawled across his bed, his feet crossed at the ankle, because he had decided this was the best pose for the situation--it radiated a certain laissez-faire attitude about the whole matter of manservants, who after all weren’t to be anything more than a piece of furniture, for all the attention which ought to be paid them, and Merlin might count himself lucky that up till this point Arthur had been so gracious a master in letting him speak, and awfully freely, at that. He doubted Merlin was even grateful about that, or for the opportunity to kiss him, which he should have been a lot more ecstatic about, considering how many willing and pliable lips might gladly and devoutly have substituted themselves for his. He was aside from the perturbation over Merlin being an awful ingrate about all the many and varied honours which Arthur had bestowed upon him over the years, roundly irritated that Merlin had just interrupted him in pretending to read a blank parchment. It was an important matter of state blank parchment, which Arthur had announced upon settling himself casually on the bed, by saying, “I need to address an important matter of state which you couldn’t possibly understand, so if you wouldn’t mind shutting your gob.” Merlin had not been flapping his gob. It made Arthur feel terribly lonely, so perhaps he can be forgiven, just a little, in the overcompensation of his imagination, for so far as he was concerned, Merlin _had_ been flapping his gob, or at least he had been about to flap his gob, or at least he had been _thinking_ about flapping his gob. (Likely it does not need to be stated that the only current inhabitant of the room who had given much thought at all to Merlin’s gob was Arthur.)

“Gaius made you do _what_?” he asked with a warning in his voice, furrowing his brow over the blank parchment.

Here Merlin was supposed to say, “Nothing” or perhaps “I forgot” or “Arthur, you mad, handsome thing; ravish me”; any of these would have been acceptable. (Arthur would like the reader to know that the last would hardly have been acted upon, but it would have been nice to hear, just in the interests of consoling himself that perhaps his manservant was not quite so stupid as he seemed, and often thought long and sweatily about his master’s kissing.)

Instead Merlin said, “You know, at the tourney. The... _thing_.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

Arthur worked his jaw round some more; Merlin made him do that a lot. There really was no comparable imbecile. “What _thing_ , Mer- _lin_ ,” he said slowly, no longer wholly absorbed in his fake matter of state, which was the whole reason he had wanted to avoid this in the first place, because it would cut into far more important things. “I don’t remember anything of any significance occuring at that tourney, and you’d do well to not remember anything of significance as well.”

“Oh, right, I saved you from being _in love_ with the Lady Vivian, averted a war, saved the peace talks, saved _your_ ungrateful, definitely useless backside from having your head stove in by King Olaf, but, you’re right, go on and sit there glaring at me like a big silly clot. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You rarely do.”

“You were _enchanted_ , Arthur! Gaius said the only way to break it was true love’s kiss, so I had Gwen come round and kiss you, and that didn’t work, so Gaius said, Gaius said...maybe it should be me. That maybe it wasn’t romantic, maybe it only had to be someone who cared about you.”

“You’re in _love_ with me! I knew it!” Arthur yelled, leaping off the bed and tossing down the parchment.

Merlin threw up his hands. “Did you listen to _nothing_ I just said? Gaius said it wasn’t _romantic_ love, you big, unbelievable, empty-headed prat!”

Arthur eyed Merlin in a distinctly suspicious way. It seemed unlikely that anyone who was neither blind nor deaf should bear no romantic excitement in their heaving breasts for his blonde athleticism. It is a simple fact of European beauty standards that blonde athleticism should be the only necessity for either romance or its stickier cousin, Lust.

“Right. You’re ‘platonically’ in love with me. You undress me ‘platonically’ for my bath and stare ‘platonically’ at me while I get into it, which I’ll be doing much faster in future, by the way.”

Merlin almost choked on his indignation. It was a harsh charge against his professionalism, which had been much battered about in his service to Arthur (and it was not entirely undeserving of the beatings which it had taken, but this was an unfair allegation; it would have been an untold violation, to leer at Arthur in that hallowed moment of vulnerability when man puts himself naked into the hands of his caregiver, and trusts him to make nothing of it). “Well, it isn’t as if I’m exactly seeing it at its best, so I wouldn’t worry about it, _sire_.”  

“What do you mean?”

“All I’m saying is sometimes it’s a bit cold in here.”

“That’s because you’re so bloody useless, you can’t even do a thing like keep the fire properly stoked! And it’s not _cold_ ,” he snapped.

“So it’s like that all the time. I guess the Lady Vivian had herself a narrow brush too.”

Arthur was incensed. He picked up what was nearest at hand, and threw it at Merlin. What was nearest at hand was an empty bowl, which might have done a deal of mischief, if Merlin had not dodged it. They chased one another round the room, shouting a lot of nonsense and pushing at one another. This was concluded with a headlock that Arthur put Merlin into, so that he could prove his irrefutable manliness. Merlin could not wrest himself out of it with strength alone; Arthur could have lifted him over his head one-handed, whilst reading his fake parchment. He cheated, slightly; he used a bit of magic to loosen Arthur’s hold, so he could slip free, and spin on him. “I should have just let Olaf take off your head, and thanked him for it!”

“Well, it would have spared me the great trauma that followed.”

“You think _you_ had it badly?”

“Of course I think I had it badly, Merlin. It’s not as if _you_ were worse off.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I beg to differ more.”

“I beg to differ...most!” Merlin shouted into his face. They realised suddenly, at the same moment, that they had got themselves into that perilous zone in which the noses were nearly touching, and in which love and hate got themselves all untidy, and had to be sorted out with something stormy. There is something tangible in a moment like this; they could feel the moment touching them at all points, lying hot on their skin, and in some terrible cluster in the bits of humans which are always most prone to obstruction. Merlin felt a great tightening in his throat; and in Arthur’s heart there was something hard, and pitiful, which seemed at once to shrink, and to expand. Longing is such a dreadful thing to suppress, when it has every right to its life, and has only asserted itself so achingly, because it knows there is such a warm home for its brethren love, if only these human receptacles did not enforce such a lot of rot about their indefatigable prejudice. Man is the only animal that thinks there is any barrier to love.

Arthur looked down. He cleared his throat.

They were both terribly sorry. They were both terribly lonely. They had each thought themselves unique in this yearning; love and death are each unto themselves a solo act, and there can be such a frightening silence in the long plunge into either.

“I have to--Gaius had something he wanted me to do,” Merlin said, and left.

  


And so there was another silence, and long and desolate it was, and far unseen its conclusion, till one day it was that Gwaine walked into Gaius’ rooms, where Merlin was sorting various herbs into their neatly labelled jars, and said, “I think you ought to leg it down to the stables.”

“Why?” Merlin asked.

He might have known if he had not been currently in the habit of avoiding Arthur; or rather if Arthur had not been currently in the habit of avoiding him, so that it had become, if not comfortable, at least hardly unusual that he should have passed most of the day without seeing him. In happier times, when Arthur would ruffle his hair, and chase him casually down the hallway, reining up when he was within a distance that Merlin should notice him, and putting on his face an expression of sudden discovery to exclaim, “Merlin! Fancy meeting you here, when I have a task for you”, Merlin would have known there was some great emergency if he had passed even a couple of hours without having seen something of Arthur. But now he knew it was only that Arthur did not want to see him, and he went about pretending he was fine with it. He was an old hat at pretending he was fine with it. Uther burned and beheaded his brethren, and his friends cheered their smoking remains; and it would one day be that they would cheer his fuming own. It was a very small thing to be falsely secure with, Arthur’s ire.

“It’s Arthur’s horse. He’s cocked up his toes.”

Merlin legged it down to the stable.

The indomitable Whiskers had not cocked up his toes. He was lying in the straw, and it was plain that he had given up, or at least that he was in the process of doing so. There was no visible mark upon him; the same imperceptible something which could happen inside of a man directly in the face of his young heart, and strapping good cheer, had happened inside of him. He was looking at Arthur with a quiet dark eye, apologising to him.

Arthur had taken off the sling to hold Whisker’s face in both hands. This was probably what most struck Merlin. He felt the tears rise hot to his eyes. He had spent a good lot of time in the horse’s affable company, and grieved for himself, a little; but he wouldn’t have cried for himself. They had not been keen enough companions for that.

But, oh, Arthur there in all his tender uncertainty, trying to be brave for his friend, and his father; he thought perhaps he was helping neither himself nor the horse, stroking its nose like that, and giving the poor creature such a frightful guilt over leaving his master. But we cannot let go selflessly; and we always think, in order to calm all the remorseful subconscious of us, that we have stayed beside a sick bed for its inhabitant, so they might understand they do not go alone. But they do go alone, where we cannot follow; and perhaps sometimes it is a better comfort that we not sow false hopes, and make the transition such a striking one.

Merlin sat down in the straw beside him.

Arthur took one hand off Whiskers’ muzzle. He laid it over Merlin’s, and gave it a slow measured pat, twice, before it settled permanently. This patting was reminiscent of the gesture he would make at the end, when he wanted to die sound in loved arms. But Merlin did not yet know what this meant, and Arthur was too scared to explain it. Probably ‘scared’ is not the right word; he was undereducated in grief, in the assuaging of it, in the supposition that it is a human right to ask for solace, when it can no longer be found in oneself.

They sat together while the horse slowly died. Slowly he looked from Arthur to Merlin, asking for absolution. Slowly he accepted the soft hands would leave him of Death’s accord, and stopped nuzzling toward them. Slowly, he closed his eyes, and made his halting journey.

Arthur was crushing Merlin’s hand. Perhaps he thought he needed to destroy something, to atone for the tears that had built up in his throat. Perhaps he simply could not be held hard enough in that moment, though Merlin tried.

They sat for a long while after it had ended, Arthur’s hand still over Merlin’s. The sun had come up, quite without them noticing. There was an overcast morning, gathering together its sullen brows, and winding up for a fit. The sun crept on soft and muted feet into the stall, and laid with gentlest hand its subdued finery. It touched the dead hull which had once had something great in its belly; it touched the gripping hands.

They said nothing. They parted having said nothing. Arthur was still indebted to attend morning patrol, since a dead horse is only a thing swiftly replaceable, for a rich man.

He looked at Merlin as they came out of the stables, and struck him once on the shoulder with the flat of his hand; he left it there for a moment, the fingers patting softly, once, twice, as his hand had done earlier. It was understood that he had been silly, and stubborn, and mean.

And it was so that they afterwards fell back into their old patterns, as if they had never left them in the first place.

  


It befell shortly afterwards that they would be challenged once more. Perhaps it was that Fate wanted to test the union, to be sure that it had got the right people.

Uther had quietly hired a witchfinder to manage the problem of sorcery in Camelot; it was a man called Aredian, who had in his favour an excellent reputation, and the habit of wearing a cape that was exactly the sort of cape you’d expect a fellow like that to wear, and so his expertise was naturally unassailable.

It was unfortunately necessary for Uther to put his own people to the test, even his most faithful; and to properly sound out something as treacherous as sorcery, you had to catch its potential practitioners unawares. In the pursuit of this, Aredian ordered a number of searches to be carried out by Arthur and his knights, who had only got wind of it some twenty minutes before the raids were to be enacted, so that there could be no time for word to leak out. Every room was searched methodically, and the inhabitants confined till it was all over; by the time they had reached Gaius’ rooms, it was late afternoon, and Arthur was fagged out. It is exhausting in a way a good honest fight is not to explain to your people that they have the presumption of guilt, and must hope they can prove otherwise. “You will treat that with respect,” he said sternly, pointing to the various pots and jars that had found their way into the hands of his coarser knights. “There’s no need for us to make this more unpleasant than is absolutely necessary. Put it back exactly where you found it.” He knew Gaius had a strict system of categorisation by which he assembled his medicines, and that disruption of it could mean death.

“What’s going on, sire?” Gaius asked, rising from his workbench. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No; rest easy.” Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Father has hired a witchfinder. We’re supposed to search every room in the castle, to weed out any potential magic users.” He looked toward his knights, and lowered his voice. “I understand what a grave danger magic is, but he jumps at shadows sometimes.”

“Indeed,” Gaius said, and something flashed in his eyes. He sat down slowly.

“Where’s Merlin?”

“In the lower town. He’s attending someone today; a minor ailment that doesn’t need a more practised hand.”

Arthur nodded, pursing his lips.

He wandered into Merlin’s room for something to do; he helped himself to a small bowl of raspberries Merlin had left on the table beside his bed, and wondered if he should not lay down in the ruffled bed where Merlin had lain only that morning, and rest easy his sadly weary bones, where his people’s wounded looks had settled themselves in hot shame.

He was deciding whether or not to do this by turning back the covers, and this was how he found, lumped beneath the top blanket, a thin book with a title he did not recognise. He undid the clasp, out of sheer boredom; and because it amused him to consider that perhaps it was something a little naughty, that he could use to torment Merlin, who turned red from his neck to the tips of his ears when he was embarrassed.

At first he did not understand what he was looking at. He thought it was medicinal. He paged through a few sections before it struck him: this was the tome of a healer who resorted to sorcery to enhance his trade.

Probably he did not really think about what he did next; he thrust it into his jacket, and walked out of the room in a cold sweat. He had to maintain his composure; Merlin’s life depended upon it. He said, in a tone he could not believe sounded so ordinary, “Gaius, would you tell Merlin to come to my chambers once he returns?”

The book glowed in his jacket like a hot ember; he felt it through the lining of his thick coat. He clicked on away down the hall back to his room when the search was duly finished, and the knights dispatched back to their usual duties. Taking the book had been an instinctive act, and now he did not know how to proceed. Any act seems rational in a moment of fevered rashness, because common sense has not yet had time to debate it. He had come out of the fever, and now in the ugly light of rationality must contemplate the looming repercussions.

His first instinct was to destroy the book, and wash his hands of it. At first he did not know why Merlin had it; and then he did not care.

If Merlin himself could have looked into all the teeming rage of this debate, and seen that there was no answer he could give Arthur that would turn them against one another, the whole ending of King Arthur of Camelot’s troubled reign might have been altered. But hindsight has always been the cleverest of us all.

Merlin walked into the room whilst Arthur was fighting himself for some wise and fair decision, which he always tried to mete out. “Gaius said you wanted me?” he asked, and he was in that moment wind-stung, pink-cheeked, amiable; and Arthur thought he could not possibly be a sect of what Uther had drawn so magnificently tall, and sinister, and corrupt.

But he needed it reiterated; and besides that, in confronting him so artlessly, Merlin had forced all of Arthur’s long-tortured feelings from his heart into his voice, which sounded desperate to them both when he threw down the book onto the table between them, and demanded, “What the hell is this?”

Merlin was still.

If he had not had Gaius’ voice in his head, he would have told. If he had not had his mother’s voice in his head, he would have told. On his own, it could not have been conceivable to him that Arthur would send him, shackled, shamed, to the headman’s insatiable axe. These two people in their great and tender concern had done a terrible thing: they had told him he had no refuge from his almost inevitable fate. They told him he had only a lot of hollow friends, full of Propaganda. They told him that his differences had made him only superficially lovable, that he could not be looked at under the microscope of true friendship, that mighty seer. They did it out of an immense love, which is more dangerous than any shiftless hate.

If he had not had their fear forced upon him.

But, oh, what a sad and bleak word is ‘if’. ‘If’ is a halfway word with all its incumbent contingencies, and seldom has more harm been done by any other word.

Merlin said, “I dunno.”

“Then why did I find it in your bed?” Arthur asked. He would have welcomed any explanation. He would have latched onto any initial offering, regardless of its legitimacy. But now he knew Merlin was lying, and that is never a thing we can unlearn about someone we love.

“I don’t know what it is, Arthur. It looks like some kind of herbal--”

“It isn’t anything about herbs. It’s sorcery.”

Merlin lifted his hands, and tried for a gormless smile. “Gaius used to be the Court Sorcerer. I’m sure he still has books lying round. We’re always having to break some spell or another; you don’t think some of his books on magic might not come in handy for that sort of thing?”

“What. Were. _You_. Doing. With. It.”

Merlin went still again. He thought how hurt Arthur looked, and how much deeper he’d press the wound, if he confessed now. He thought he was doing a kindness. He thought he was helping them both.

He said, “I found it. In the archives. I’m sorry; I was curious.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s forbidden, Merlin. On pain of _death_. Not to mention, my father has hired a witchfinder to sniff out exactly this sort of _stupidity_ and he’s certainly not going to pay out a small fortune to _not_ execute anyone. I know it’s what you do best, but try not to be such an idiot.” Arthur was putting on a show. He knew that Merlin was still lying to him. It was not, precisely, that he thought Merlin dabbled in the practise of magic; and certainly he did not even suspect that in fact Merlin was the greatest warlock of the current era, and perhaps even most of the eras. But he had always realised (for he was far sharper than his beauty might suggest) there was something slightly off about Merlin; certainly his ears, if we consider the matter of proportion; but more than this, there was an undercurrent, which Gwen had sensed also. The smile was not a put-on; it had the sort of genuine shine only a pure heart can give it. But there was some secret sadness, which he caught out occasionally, and could not contextualise, since it seemed there was little for Merlin to mourn, unless he was particularly guilt-ridden over all the laundry he had ruined.

Quite simply: he had thought Merlin did not have a kingdom fated for his shoulders, and did not understand true and sickening responsibility. And now there was a tiny voice in Arthur’s head, and it suggested that perhaps he did.

He began to watch Merlin more closely. Not in his current hawk-eyed state of love newfound, which notices all the little things past which platonic affection sails in gay and laughing ignorance (except Gwaine’s platonic affection, that is, which could have easily beat you at a Merlin-themed game of Trivial Pursuit). He was looking specifically for anything that might tell him one way or another what it was that his suspicions had roused from the bush, but not brought to bay.

It must seem that the magical reveal should have been a momentous occasion, with all the accompanying fanfare, allegorical or literal.

But it was only a quiet moment, when Arthur had taken an arrow from a bandit that might have been fatal, if he had not had Merlin at his side. Arthur was in that muddled netherworld between consciousness and slumber, and might not otherwise have noticed. But he had kept his eyes skinned for weeks now in search of some small tell, and so when he saw Merlin bending over him, sniffling and putting his hands on Arthur’s wound, what befell next was captured even by his blurry mind, and preserved for him to contemplate later, when he had got bored of dying and moved on. Merlin murmured something beneath his breath in a language Arthur did not understand; he might have excused this. It was not technically illegal to be more learned than your master (though it was heavily frowned upon). But he could not excuse, or explain away, the sudden flash of Merlin’s eyes, which changed suddenly from blue to gold.  

And so he knew, and shut his eyes, and sank into warm sleep.

  


He was naturally angry. He thought how immensely _unfair_ it was, that he had told Merlin everything, even the things which the King had forbidden, and Merlin had told him nothing. He thought it damaged so many of the things which lay between them; it is a hard thing to peel back some unexpected layer of a friend to which you have devoted yourself heart and soul and naughty dreams.

It was not true rage, which is birthed by righteousness; it was the slurry byproduct of hurt. He considered himself betrayed, not because Merlin was a sorcerer, and therefore evil, and had spun between them some sham friendship in order to access the crown prince in all his naive and lonely longing. He could not be shaken in his still-enduring faith of Merlin’s loyalty and intentions. The betrayal was in having given Merlin pieces of himself that cannot be retrieved, and Merlin sitting there quietly, and taking them, and offering nothing in return. He was disappointed in himself; he was used to this. He had learnt it from his father. But still it is a bitter pill indeed, to have learnt we do not have the right to true and reciprocal friendship, to forget it, to remember it once more.

He felt sorry indeed for himself, and sulked for a while, and had to be got out of bed by Merlin pushing from one side, and Gwaine pulling at the other, whilst Arthur clung to one of the bed posts, and made a wholly undignified scene about the entire thing.

But as we have said before, Arthur was only young, and a little loutish; he was not malicious. He was tender-hearted in the way that people are often tender-hearted when they have known so much of what is called ‘love’ but is actually domination. Sometimes we abide the things that break us, because we believe we deserve them; but unconsciously there is inside of us the voice of human benevolence which has survived all our innumerable sins, and we recognise its infallibility, and know we must follow not the dogma of mortal prejudice passed down by errable Man. I think perhaps some people can’t hear it, or do not want to hear it, and so it gets stifled, or muddled; but Arthur followed it instinctively, and that was why he ruled by the edicts of compassion, even when he was afraid, because Uther had told him it would be so, that he was not strong enough. He knew that he could not treat people the way he had been treated; he could not recognise how undeserving the child, and how undeserving the man, of this sterile loveless upbringing; but he knew it was not worthy of succession.

He did not, then, say anything to anyone; even to Merlin. He grumbled about it to himself, but he knew that Merlin had not told him for a reason (and there were reasons untold, and reasonable). Besides this, he recognised, suddenly, one day while at table contemplating a chicken rather than eating it, that perhaps it had been unfair of Merlin to lie to him; but how much more unbearably unfair it was, to watch one’s own kind hunted, and killed, and tormented, because of a thing they couldn’t help. Humankind is often fond of punishing people for the things they cannot help; but Arthur felt in a terrible rush the brutality of this, and with a terrible clarity looked back over all the comments he had made, freely, casually, in front of Merlin whilst he was polishing armour, or brushing coats, or filling the bath, of the insidiousness of magic and its users. He had only been parroting Uther the way a child recites their Bible verses without stopping to think about God, and whether they have actually nursed Him in their breast, or merely mumbled before a simulacrum. But he had nevertheless impugned the whole lot of practitioners. He had never liked the executions; but he had let them happen. He could have pardoned himself by rightly pointing out that he had never ordered them, or condoned them; but he had stood silently as they happened, and that is enough. We can always excuse ourselves by saying, “But _I_ didn’t do anything!” without realising that we have by this same admittance outed our own collaboration.

He thought of the slurs he had used, and the times he had said, when it seemed that Merlin might have been taken in by one or another of them, that no magic user could be trusted; and it was a harsh fate that awaited them, but one must consider social comfort. The People must sleep snug in their beds, knowing themselves unharmed. He thought, with almost crippling shame, that he had found Merlin on numerous occasions with watery eyes, and red nose, and had clapped him on the back, and called him a girl; and now he could see through that wonderful oracle Hindsight that the watery eyes and red nose had coincided with many of those executions, and he had selfishly, boorishly never bothered to connect them.

He thought of the smile which Merlin carried about in its full and genuine luminosity, as if humanity were still something to believe in, and put his face in his hands.

Merlin walked in on him like this. He might not have, if he ever bothered to knock, but he figured having seen Arthur in every state of illness and undress in which a man can be observed entitled him to a certain lackadaisical attitude toward basic manners. And certainly they would never be able to top that mortifying incident with the chamberpot. (We shall not enter into too explicit an explanation; it is enough to say that Arthur had been happily engaged in the process of relieving himself of a bodily substance for which the chamberpot was not expressly designed when Merlin walked into the room, and choked out, after a deafening silence, “Oh! Em, sorry, sire, I didn’t know you were... _busy_.” Two important things had been taken away from the occurrence: that Merlin should _knock_ like a human with some concept of basic privacy and decency; and that Arthur ought to romance himself late at night, when Merlin’s duties were over, and under his covers, so that the whole thing could be comfortably ignored if the first point were ever forgotten, which it frequently was.)

“What’s wrong with you?” Merlin asked, collecting a pair of trousers from the floor.

“Nothing.” Arthur rubbed his forehead. “A headache.”

“That’s two answers.”

“Here’s a third for you, Merlin: _you_.” He didn’t want to say that. He wanted to say something gibbering about Merlin’s forgiveness. He wanted, actually, to leave the cold chicken and embrace like two friends who meant very much to one another and would never, to the very best of their considerable abilities, let anything happen to the other. He wanted Merlin to understand he was not monstrous, not tainted, not hated; he wanted Merlin to know he could be loved wholly, for everything he was.

But he could not say this.

He had been forced to a realisation. The realisation was that he loved Merlin, which he had known, to some degree or another, for a while. This was a deeper knowledge. This was the slow sad dawning of enormity, which we prefer to deny because we cannot contain it.

You must understand. Arthur had been dismissive of both their feelings, he had been cruel to both their feelings. He was not wrong to be.

In the time of Uther Pendragon, homosexuality was known as sodomy, and the Church had conflated it with heresy, so the people understood it to be a great evil. It was a handy charge when a follower had made some rumblings about an individual opinion, which an organized anything considers unseemly. In addition, the Church had done away entirely with that blasphemous nonsense of sexual pleasure, and entered into a state of sexual purity which is still practised today in America, where a national emergency must be declared any time it is that an unexpected breast (particularly the nipple) puts in a villainous appearance on the telly. (In the defence of America, it must be understood that breasts are quite malevolent, and can often be found twirling their moustaches and smothering children, and even sometimes kittens.)

That is to say, if there is to be any shagging, God asks that you please keep it down, and also to be sure your ‘deposits’ are made in the appropriate orifice, which is to say the vagina. Non-reproductive sex, as we know, is for pagans; and no one wants to be accused of that.

England’s Buggery Act was not passed till 1533; but the matter had already been addressed in ecclesiastical courts for centuries, and whilst our evidence of medieval opinions upon homosexuality is somewhat spotty, nevertheless there is a hard vein of Christian disapproval and even capital punishment running throughout the Middle Ages. To be buggered was an unnatural act; firstly because it could not result in a son, and secondly because it is for the woman to be penetrated, and the man to do the penetrating. For a man to be penetrated means he wishes to be a woman; and that too is unnatural, since even the women of the time did not want to be women. It was firmly known by our ancestors that external genitalia is a sign of divinity, no matter how glum, and helplessly pasty it may look.

Because we do not know the precise timeline of the Pendragon reign, we must make a few assumptions.

To have a son who loved another man in such a way would have been an unforgivable embarrassment; and it is probable that Uther would have killed Arthur for it. He would certainly have killed Merlin. To have a daughter is middling, but endurable; to have a son who acts like a daughter is unconscionable.

So Arthur knew, before he was quite aware of anything else, that there could be no physical act of love between them. That is all right, when you have kept yourself ignorant, and pretended to the normal amount of affection one should feel for his chum. It is far more excruciating, to be suspended within that needling desperation of unrequited passion, which never can lie easy.

And now it was that Merlin had magic. There was already waiting for him, through no fault of his own, some eager pyre, or axe. He could not on top of that become embroiled in something equally injurious to his mortality. Arthur would have to spend the rest of his life in the dull sickness of yearning. He would have to lie beside a wife he did not love, did not lust after, did not perhaps even like. He would have to get on her a son, and raise it better, and put it on his throne. He would have to do all this without Merlin, because any marriage, even an unhappy one, is a private institution to which no outsider can ever hope to be admitted.

Merlin saw this on his face. He did not understand all of it; but he knew there was something deeply troubling happening inside Arthur. He put down the trousers. He said, “Arthur, you all right?”

Arthur rubbed his forehead again. He thought of everything Merlin must have done for him. He thought he could at least do this much for him.

He looked up with a fond smile. Merlin returned it, somewhat confused.

“I want you to take the day off,” he told Merlin.

“What? Why? Are you mad at me?”

“No, Merlin. I think...you’ve earned it.”

“What, really?” Merlin asked, and his whole face lit up. “Wait. You aren’t taking the piss, are you?”

“I’m not taking the piss. Go and find Gwaine and do whatever it is you do that gets my food spit in by cook.”

“Em, sorry, that wasn’t cook. That was me.” Merlin’s ears reddened. He had thought it only fair to confess, if Arthur was going to be kind to him.

“ _What_?”

“Well, you were being an awful wanker, and I only did it once, and if anyone else has spit in your food, I don’t know who it was, and maybe that should be a sign to you. To stop being…” He swirled his hand round. “So... _Arthurish_ all the time.”

“Arthurish.”

Merlin nodded, pressing his lips together. “You aren’t going to take back my day off, are you?”

Arthur sat back in his chair and sighed. He thought seriously about it. He remembered all the things he had said about sorcerers while Merlin stood placidly by, waiting to save him. He thought perhaps he had earned something a little more than spit in his chicken. “No. But, Merlin, if you ever do it again, I’ll have you put in the dungeons for a month.”

“Thanks, Arthur! I’m going to find Gwen and Gwaine.” He ran for the door; he stopped when he had reached it, and turned back. “Do you want to come?”

Arthur stirred round his chicken restlessly, and picked at the piece of bread on his plate. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I’d really like it if you did,” Merlin replied softly, and that decided it.

They all convened in The Rising Sun; Gwen and Gwaine had a drinking competition. Sir Leon was sick trying to keep up, and crawled under the table to expire in peace, which Merlin would not let him do, and kept bothering him with a lot of water and pep talk. Gwen and Gwaine were still steadily plugging away; Arthur, who had always been a bit of a lightweight, was on his third beer, and found that everything was so amusing he had to lean on Merlin’s shoulder so he could laugh without falling off the bench.

“Hang in there, sir!” Merlin would say under the table to Sir Leon, whilst Arthur laughed on him, and Gwaine nodded grimly after each tankard he set down, and motioned for Gwen to get on with it.

And then it was that someone brought in a fiddle, and struck up skillfully enough for a room full of drunks, and the group broke up, having decided the contest was a draw for the moment, so that they could, naturally, dance on top of the table and break the crockery, whilst Sir Leon sent up pitiful entreaties to be stabbed.

There were many moments such as these. We often forget the humanity of legends, who are a lot of rowdy drunkards with morning breath, the same as the rest of us.

  


Because the boy Mordred was soon to enter into their lives, and Arthur was shortly to learn the nature of his birth, and Lady Morgana to have her first disastrous encounter with the sorceress Morgause, we ought to have a gentle interlude, where our protagonists are only a lot of young men and women, loving, loved.

The Lady Morgana had herded Merlin, Gwen, and Gwaine into Arthur’s chambers one evening partially because she liked to order people about, but mostly because she wanted to practise a new dance she had learned about, which was called the Basse danse. The Church was not particularly in favour of dancing, since people often forget to leave room for the Holy Spirit, and then there is the possibility of all sorts of mischief like genitalia proximity, which everyone knows is just as bad as the act itself. Dancing is only a spirited prelude to fucking, and whilst a fat new baby may be the consequence of fucking, it is never the goal; for it is a mad, senseless thing, with a lot of sweaty flailing, and sometimes features a sound like dying sea creatures, if one or both parties are particularly pleased. Therefore, dancing = fornication. It was of some relief that the Church knew this, and the participants of the afternoon did not, since it might have made things a bit awkward, two out of five of them being related, two out of five of them being in hopeless, chaste love, and two out of five of them being drinking chums who had come to view one another with the affection of a sister and brother (or at least Gwen had; Gwaine was not opposed to a spontaneous act of nudity from any pretty lady, and had never been known to turn up his nose at a carnal offering).

The Basse danse at least was a slow, gliding thing that did not leap about erotically, and the dancers touched only at the hands, and were often not even facing one another, but side by side. Morgana paired herself with Merlin, whom she thought was an absolute dear, and Gwen with Gwaine, because Gwen would keep him from acting the maggot and ruining any of the steps. He was also a dear (though not quite an absolute one) but could not be much depended upon to take anything very seriously. He was already spinning Gwen beneath his arm, and making her dizzy.

“You ought to have paired Merlin with Gwaine; now how are you going to decide who’s the girl?” Arthur asked Morgana. He was lying on his bed, in a generally cranky mood. He had been out extra early that morning on patrol in search of some creature that had been spotted in the woods, and hadn’t found it, and was now, owing to the fatigue and his failure, determined to be a cunt.

“Oh, stop your whingeing and get up and do it with us,” Morgana told him. She did not tolerate men snapping at her.

“Then there would be an odd number.”

“Don’t worry, Princess; I’ll hold back so you don’t look so bad.”

That was enough to persuade Arthur; he jumped up from his bed and muscled Merlin out of the way so that he could partner with Morgana.

“Arthur!” Morgana scolded him.

“You’re the one who just told me to ‘stop whingeing and get up’,” Arthur reminded her, in a nasally tone that it must be assumed was supposed to be an imitation of Morgana’s voice.

“Well, I didn’t tell you to be a perfect arse to Merlin.”

“I can’t help but be anything other than perfect, Morgana.”

She disengaged her hand from his quite rudely, in his opinion. “Come on, Merlin.”

“That’s all right; probably trip over my own feet anyway.”

“Merlin, why don’t you dance with us?” Gwen asked. “We’ll switch out with you and Gwaine.”

There was a squabble over who got to be Merlin’s partner; Arthur had put in for himself, by making more derisive comments about how it might as well be, since he needed a girl as a partner, and Morgana only barely qualified. It might seem a violation of his decision to love Merlin in a soppy, unrequited way, but he did not see any harm in holding hands a little and walking stately round the room, especially as he could make plenty of snobby comments about Merlin’s balance, and his sweaty palms.

It was settled by Morgana, who decided she really was more suited to observing and barking orders, and that Gwaine and Merlin would be insufferably silly together, and therefore Gwen had better be put between them, to retain some semblance of order.

Morgana counted; everyone took hands.

Arthur’s heart beat in madcap rhythm against his chest. His neck was hot. He had not considered that in depriving oneself, any little treat becomes something magnificent. The simple act of holding Merlin’s hand made him nervous; he felt mildly sick. Moreover, they were nearly the same height; Merlin was only a little taller (this was an eternal irritator for Arthur, who found it personally insulting that someone so skinny could outmatch him in any physical way), so it was that they came eye to eye when they turned toward the other, still hand in hand. He could not avoid looking directly into Merlin’s eyes while he was holding hands with him. He could not avoid thinking about the fingers in his, and how they had felt on the back of his neck.

Merlin stepped on his foot.

“Merlin, you _cow_!” Arthur yelped.

“Arthur!” Morgana snapped. She did not like it when people picked on Merlin, whom she viewed as something that needed to be protected in the way an unbearably fluffy animal must be protected. She would have liked to carry him about in her pocket, and sneak him treats.

“Sorry,” Merlin said to Arthur, and stepped on his foot when they turned again, so that Arthur would know he had done it on purpose.

Then it was that Arthur worked himself into a great fluster, wondering if Merlin were flirting with him, and how he should respond, and whether or not anyone had noticed, and whether or not they had interpreted it as flirting, and whether or not they thought he should respond in kind, etc. and so forth. He was quite embarrassing.

Merlin, for his part, had been flirting, just a bit.

They had a lovely evening. Morgana terrorised them with great cheer; Gwaine with even greater cheer disobeyed her direct orders, frequently and with delight; Gwen, who had been tasked with keeping him in line, tried to scold him between fits of giggles, but being madly twirled, and dipped, and sashayed (and at one point lifted onto the table for a solo number), had some difficulties in getting up the breath to do it; Merlin and Arthur pretended they did not feel shy with the other, and insulted one another doubly to make up for it, and held hands longer than necessary.

Afterwards they played Nine Men’s Morris, which was another strategy game that Arthur expected to handily win, so long as he did not play Gwen; there was accompanying drinking, which ended with Merlin thoroughly soused, so that he had to be dragged through the corridors by his armpits, and then left anonymously in front of Gaius’ doors. Arthur and Gwaine knocked once, looked at one another, and then ran away, which was not very knightly of them, but they did not want a lecture.

There were many nights like this. Sometimes there were only the three men, sneaking out for a lark after Uther had confined Arthur to his chambers for some previous amusement or another; sometimes they took the girls into the woods and taught them boxing. They played tricks on the priggish Sir Leon, and endlessly harried one another, and they all fell a little in love with each other, and considered the group to be immortal, the way the friendships of youth always are.

It is with great regret that we do not stop here, with Arthur and Merlin sitting before the fire, tossing dates into one another’s mouths. It is immensely funny to them, every time they miss. In another moment, Gwaine will clamber through the open window with no explanation, saying to them only, “Gentlemen” before falling face first onto Arthur’s bed; in another moment more, he will send up a great racket of snoring, and smacking his lips, turn his face to drool into Arthur’s pillow. Merlin will find this highly amusing; Arthur somewhat less so.

Gwen and Morgana are gossiping as Gwen prepares her lady for bed. They talk boys, and then swords. They are all young, animated (except for Gwaine), carefree.

And then it was that the Queen Morgause came to Camelot.

  


There had been a shift in the relationship between Arthur and Merlin that only Arthur felt. This was his new awareness of Merlin’s powers, which he handled as he were their childminder, and sternly forbid them from crossing the street without holding his hand. He did not seem to consider that Merlin had been looking after them for some time now, with all the competency required to keep his head firmly undecapitated. Whenever it was that some new magical threat had got its teeth into Camelot, and Uther had got his teeth into the magical threat, Arthur ransacked Merlin’s room for any detritus of the sorcerer variety, and stole it if he found it, and careened madly about the room if he had not, looking for anything he might have missed, and his knights would not. He gave Merlin a lot of significant looks when Uther had got his knickers in a twist over an enchantment, and significant presses on the wrist, and significant warnings like, “Merlin, be _careful_ ” with a lot of significant tonal emphasis.

Merlin thought he had eaten something bad, and had Gaius mix up something for indigestion. He had rather more faith in the secret of his magic than he ought to, considering the fact that he used it to cheat at chess, and cheat at his chores, and cheat at the rather severe case of grabby hands which Death had got for Arthur, and also to make dragons out of campfire smoke. It was a good job that in the time of Uther Pendragon they did not have forensics, or even basic observational skills.

There was not any magical emergency when Queen Morgause came for a visit; in fact it was entirely quiet, and a bit boring. Arthur relished this, and had a nap.

The Queen Morgause was a distant acquaintance who had got tired of her musty old castle, which was not a castle in the magnificent sense of the word, and did not have any pennants, or grand entryways, but was only a crumbling tower with some mold the housekeeper had missed, and a rat who had lived there happily for some years. She had left her son (there was only one; we shall explain in a bit) in the tower to fend for himself, because it is such a bother to travel with children, and because if he had done anything naughty, there would be the pleasure of whipping him when she returned, which was always nice. It was fortunate that in the time of Uther Pendragon it was pretty well accepted that one should beat their children back into line, otherwise there was hardly any point in having them.

She would not have been received with such pomp, being only a distant acquaintance, if not for the fact that she was beautiful. She was not beautiful in the way that most women are beautiful, when they are young, and have got nice hair; she had had innumerable verses dedicated to her eyes, and thus far at this point in the story, when she was thirty-two, five men had already died fighting over her hand, and another six driven mad for lack of it. Arthur nearly fell out his window trying to have a look at her; Merlin pulled him back by the neck of his tunic, which he jerked a bit too hard for the purpose, and afterward returned sullenly to the cupboard he was rearranging, thinking that it was certainly fine if Arthur liked long black hair and red lips and enormous blue eyes and all that sort of thing, it was very nice for him, maybe he could just _marry_ the Queen and have her handsome blue-eyed babies and forget all about the fact that he had just months ago shared (an admittedly awkward, unskilled and even somewhat traumatic) True Love’s kiss with someone else. It was very grand. They’d have lovely fat children who would call him ‘Uncle Merlin’, and expect him to pick up their smelly leggings, and polish their armour, and be their unprotesting stepladder, when they were too short to mount their horses unassisted. He hoped they were all very happy together.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Arthur, who had been watching Merlin wrinkle up his face as if he had got a bit of bad chicken, and did not want to be too obvious about needing the chamber pot.

“Nothing. It’s only I don’t see what the fuss is; I don’t think she’s that pretty.”

“That’s because you’re _blind_ ; did you see her _enormous--_ ”

Gwen had walked into the room at this moment, as the door had been left open by Merlin, who was giving the chambers a good airing; she would have not walked in unannounced if it had been shut, as she was very attentive to things like boundaries, and understood, as a single woman, that sometimes one had things to do which they needed to accomplish in private, without interruption, if one did not want to hobble a bit the next day.

Arthur blinked at her. “Her enormous...personality. And...chastity,” he finished, and coughed.

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Sorry!” Gwen said, sensing she had interrupted something. “I only needed to borrow Merlin for a bit. To help with an errand.”

Arthur did not like it when people borrowed Merlin, but he was graciously willing to make an exception for Gwen, who was not as touchy with him as Gwaine. He probably would not have been so gracious, if he had known about the kiss.

“Off you go,” he told them, and sat down to think about the Queen Morgause’s enormous chastity.

Gwen did not need Merlin for an official task, as she had implied to Arthur. It was Arthur’s birthday in only a week, and she needed a suitable present. She could not get him what he really wanted (that is to say: Merlin) and had a somewhat poor alternative in the form of a muffler she had knitted herself, in the evenings, on top of her chores. But she thought it had turned out quite lovely regardless, and wanted Merlin’s opinion on it, and to know whether he thought Arthur should actually wear it, instead of adding it to the pile on his floor that Merlin daily had to pick through, and put back into its proper place.

Merlin was still perturbed about Morgause. He could hear the villagers going on about her as they walked through the lower town to Gwen’s home. He thought it very inconsiderate of this random woman to come to Camelot, and be prettier than everyone else.

Gwen showed him the muffler, draping it over her arm, and fussing over whether or not it was perfect, and would Arthur like the colour, and would it be quite warm enough; Merlin said he thought it would do nicely, in a distracted voice. Gwen put away the muffler, and touched his hand. “Merlin, what is it?”

“Hmm? Nothing.” He was used to not talking about his own problems. He thought at least the muffler would come in handy, when he felt like strangling Arthur.

Now, there was to be a feast in honour of the Queen Morgause, and next day a tourney, in which Arthur would ride, and likely win, and this is always attractive to a young and beautiful woman; and besides that he was seated next to her at the feast, and paid her many charming smiles and innuendo. He was smooth with her in a way he could not be with Merlin. Merlin did not see this as a promising indication of Arthur’s affections, and did not seem to realise what a simple thing it is, to be charismatic in a flirtation about which we care fuckall. He was upset, and a little petty; he spilled wine in Arthur’s lap.

“Sorry, sire!” he said in a voice which he knew Arthur would interpret to mean that he was not sorry at all. It was small of him; but he had been through such a lot already that it is hard to condemn him for this minuscule meanness.

“Merlin, you idiot!” Arthur blurted out, though he had resolved, upon discovering the magic, to be a bit less free with that insult, and to remember that a great many things which he had attributed to himself, and to luck, probably should have been attributed to Merlin, who had never even been bitter that it was his fate to have his deeds of great and noble stature given to others.

Back in Arthur’s room they had a row about replacing his trousers, which he had demanded Merlin do, as if he were a toddler who could not perform the basic task of doing up his laces. Then there was an erotic moment when Merlin snapped, “Fine! Here you are, _my lord_ ,” and Arthur understood the implications of his command, and had to stand quietly whilst Merlin undid his belt, and in one furious yank put the trousers in an undignified puddle round his ankles.

There was a moment of heavy silence.

They looked at one another. They each had the individual, simultaneous thought to dive at the other, and snog his face off.

“Well,” Arthur said, putting his hands on his hips, and trying to look royal in a pair of underwear he should have retired at least three campaigns ago. Underwear does not long outlast a campaign, for reasons we should not mention, because it would be crass, and unromantic, and we are trying to set a mood.

“Well,” Merlin said. “Queen Morgause seems nice.”

“And beautiful,” Arthur added.

“I think Gwen’s prettier.”

“You think Gwen is pretty?”

“Oh, yes. She’s quite beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have her. I can’t believe you muffed that up.”

Arthur was a bit peeved (if we are to dabble in the art of understatement) that he was being blamed for mucking up that whole affair, when it was _Merlin’s_ stupid face and _Merlin’s_ stupid loveliness that had made him muck it up in the first place. “I didn’t muck it up! I never liked her in the first place, you _tit_!” Arthur’s heart wanted him to follow this up with some grand declaration; Arthur’s head wanted him to pull up his trousers; Arthur’s smaller head wanted him to do something primal, like rip open Merlin’s shirt.

Arthur had made a noble pact to stare from afar, and brood; it would be in an insensible risk to someone he adored, to act upon something as frivolous as physical desire. Arthur’s hormones had not made this pact, and wanted him to throw Merlin on the bed. They were not specific about what needed to follow, other than that it was of their opinion Merlin at least should be fully naked, since neither they nor Arthur had ever seen him fully naked. He’s skinny as a rat, Arthur pointed out to his hormones, and his hormones pointed out back: a very loyal, handsome rat, with lips of rosebud fair.  

Merlin had made no pact; his very existence was illegal. He could not contemplate everything he did which was worthy of execution, or else he would have to spend all his free time contemplating it, and occasionally he liked to do other things, such as reading, or tying Arthur’s bootlaces together. He had no moral qualms against snogging Arthur, and that made it a bit more difficult to not snog Arthur. He did have moral qualms against being stabbed in the face, however, and that made it a bit easier to not snog Arthur.

If Arthur had drunk only one more glass of wine, probably they would have missed the rest of the feast, and most of the tourney. It was a near thing, as it was. He looked at Merlin’s lips; Merlin looked at his lips. They then checked to see if the other had just been looking at their lips; they both concluded the other had. It did not seem very heterosexual to either of them. Merlin decided perhaps he would not be stabbed in the face after all, and thought he should maybe do whatever it was people did when they ravished one another uncontrollably. He was not quite sure what that was; he understood the mechanics of it, of course, but he had not had the opportunity to much practise it in Elador, and so the lead-up to the ravishing was all a bit muggy for him. He did not think it was the polite thing, to just commence with the ravishing. He thought probably Arthur would like to be eased into it, with a lot of slow kissing, and civilised hands on the waist.

Arthur, on the other hand, was not thinking of a lot of gentle foreplay; his repression had forced him to jump right to the part where he got his cock touched. He was preoccupied with licking. Then he realised he was preoccupied with licking, in front of his manservant, in his underwear.

Merlin was not certain he had ever seen Arthur blush, and this was a serious one, that looked uncomfortable; it was a bit gratifying.

There was another moment of danger for Arthur, when it seemed they might both fall or fling themselves into one another’s arms; and then there was a knock at the door.

It was the Queen Morgause. She begged both their pardons for the intrusion, really; but she had a matter of grave importance to address to the prince, and it could not be done here, now, with prying ears about. She pleaded most earnestly for him to come to her chambers, later, when the night was deepest, and soft confessions safest.

She had in reality something to actually tell him; but she also meant to seduce him. She liked men, especially young rich ones. She arranged herself strategically on the bed, with her night dress open. She did not show all of her bosom; that was an amateurish error, and sometimes scared off the honourable ones, who were often the most fun to bed. There was a certain frenzy in their self-loathing, and she often came out of it with angry love marks on her neck, and sometimes even burns round her throat, where a belt or sash had chafed it, which she quite liked.

Prince Arthur brought along the skinny brunette who had served him at dinner. It did not much alter her plans; he was handsome enough, although he appeared to be quite breakable, and would have to be on top, whilst Arthur watched. Some men could be had from behind whilst they were fucking her; but she did not presume this fragile young slip could endure them both; she was not entirely sure he would even survive her.

The manservant was oddly immune to her bosom, and the long white leg she flashed with artistic ingenuity. He gave her the stink eye. He seemed to hold something against her, or to be suspicious of her in some way. That was unfortunate; now she would have to poison him, and his mouth looked to be capable of such lovely things.

Arthur she had thought would be easy: he was clearly virile, aggressive, masculine; a true Hercules. There was already a tension radiating from him which she knew he longed to release in the slick heavings of her young and buoyant flesh, because all men did. But he seemed, oddly, to defer to the skinny young manservant; Arthur regarded the skinny young manservant in some way she did not understand. If he had looked at Merlin with pure lust in his eyes, she would have got it, instantly; but Arthur looked at Merlin with his heart in his eyes, and hearts were a thing she could not reconcile with pleasure; she did not think they had anything to do with one another. She knew what a lot of flimsy rubbish they could be, and how men wept when she had finished with them, and tossed them out; but she did not recognise them upon sight, and only knew them once they had been ruined, because then the host made an awful noise about it, and sometimes did away with themselves, which was of course their prerogative, and rather flattering; but it all seemed a bit silly.

She had to give up the charming little seduction side quest, and get down to the main task.

“Arthur,” she told him, with big eyes, her lips a little parted. “There is something you don’t know about your mother. About your father. Everything you understand is wrong. I can’t show you here; Uther would kill me.” She made her voice raspy, as if with tears. “You must come to me, at Castle Orkney, five days hence. Only then can you know everything. Only then, can you see your dear mother.”

  


One more word, before we commence to Orkney Castle.

Arthur was not the only Pendragon the Queen Morgause had intended to seduce. She knew three things about the Lady Morgana that the Lady Morgana herself did not know, and this is immensely attractive; there is power in any secret, and power threefold in a secret of which the bearer themselves is ignorant. The three things were this:

  1. That the Lady Morgana was of magical blood
  2. That the Lady Morgana was her own half-sister
  3. That the Lady Morgana was not Uther’s ward, but his daughter



They were all three of them integral to the Lady Morgana, to this story, to the fate of Arthur Pendragon; and she did not know them.

The Queen Morgause was not interested in Morgana’s flesh of fair marble; no, she was after Morgana’s trust, and that is a far trickier seduction, and needs a finer hand. She was coming fresh off a rejection from Arthur, who had seemed a sure thing, but she was not dissuaded; the Queen Morgause had an immortal faith in herself, which unlike a man could not be killed, and did not even take a day off, to set down its aching failures. She knew, through a combination of visions and other magical mischief, that the Lady Morgana suffered from nightmares; and these were no common unrest of humanity’s troubled soul, which in cold sleep is mocked by future graves. She was in the throes of the visions which her powers were using to communicate with her; they had slept their long unwatered sleep, and now demanded retribution. She had seen Arthur drowned, only days before Merlin had to fish him, barely alive, out of a lake; and she had watched Camelot fall to her own fevered hordes, untiring; and she did not know how to address any of it, other than to beg more of Gaius’ fruitless sleeping draughts, and to keep herself awake as long as she could, and to walk about in low mists, as some stray forest wanderer who has watched the morning fogs rise in cold calamity round them, and found themselves suddenly disoriented. She sometimes nearly cut herself, managing her own food, and then Gwen had to do it for her, as if she were a child. Merlin would tell her jokes (terrible ones, of low Vaudeville humour) to take the clouds out of her eyes, but she was away in unreachable realms. Thus are the travails of the insomniac and their slow unwitting unlife.

When the Queen Morgause approached her, she was standing in a corridor staring out one of the windows. She was looking at nothing. She was contemplating those odd balletic shimmies of malformed thought inside her. With muggy desperation, she was trying to unravel and tidy them.

“Hello,” the Queen Morgause said in the tone of someone who is a little bit timid, and must be handled softly. “It’s the Lady Morgana, is it not?” she asked gently.

It may seem hackneyed, to send a Jezebel. Indeed this is a fair charge; and history has already put so much onto the shoulders of women, who surely cannot have caused so much of its wrack, and more of its ruin. But Destiny could not send a man. Morgana did not hate them; in fact she liked several awfully much. But she thought them somewhat silly and frivolous creatures, prone to impulsiveness and a great deference to their penis’ agitated opinions. She could not take them very seriously. If a man had slithered with ill intentions into her life, she would have spotted him instantly, and squashed him. But she had in her that same strange misogyny of the well-meaning, who assume of women a childlike virtue. She did not anticipate in any woman the rime which had replaced Morgause’s conscience; she thought there was in each individual woman the same as was in her. She did not know that some women are only a very good copy of humankind, and their clay of similar aesthetic. She might have guessed it of a man, since after all it was always a man who started the wars, and burnt the children; but I suppose there is in any of us a violent flinching from atrocities which are done by our own gentle kind.

The Queen Morgause gave her a delicate bracelet of fine beauty, and bade her wear it for her troubled sleep. It was a family remedy, she said, and smiled.

It was a magical charm. But you must remember Morgana was tired, and scared, and alone in the things that were happening to her; alone in her own mind, which did not have any better clue than she. When it was that the Queen Morgause told her the bracelet had in its little dangling charm a special mixture of herbs, Morgana believed her. They parted as friends.

  


Five days hence, Merlin and Arthur rode to Castle Orkney.

It was a half days’ ride, and as they had not been able to slip away till the early afternoon, they arrived in the tired Sunday dusk which had made that long day’s journey with them, and was now settling down to die. They had come through that glorious profusion of a summer countryside when nothing can help itself, and froths over those invisible lines of sovereignty that in winter months declare with cruel and arbitrary rule on which side shall the living prevail, and the dying perish. Their arrival had coincided with that gentle heliotrope phase of early evening that makes nothing less lovely, no matter how frightful its daytime character. Ah, soft-dying purple, charmed sister of black; but the boys did not notice this. They had argued the entire ride over whether or not it had been a good idea to come, and were arguing still. Or, rather, they had both pretty well agreed that it had not been a good idea to come; the disagreement was in whether or not they ought to have come anyway. Merlin was of the firm opinion that they should not have, and in consequence they were both probably going to be horribly murdered, him first, in accordance with his luck. Arthur was of the firm opinion that Merlin was a big nancy boy, and Queen Morgause only a girl. He did not actually feel this way; Castle Orkney was of dubious character, and as the sun continued to falter, and the moon to try her meddlesome hand, a certain sinister feeling began to prevail. The castle was no citadel of Camelot. It had fallen into that state of disrepair which some poets believe deserves a gilt tongue, because it is ruined, and in being ruined has the poignancy of mortality. There were all the necessary vines, and the bits of moss between the stones. There were no friendly animal callings of domestic or woodland guest; and the garden seemed rather limp, for having a lady of great beauty to adorn.

Arthur dismounted his horse. He had not yet quite adjusted to the loss of Whiskers, and had to make some effort to be fair to this one, and give it the proper love between the ears, and under the soft muzzle. He handed the reins to Merlin as Merlin came down off his own mount.

“You want me to stand out here and wait with the horses? While you go in alone?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be scared, Merlin.”

Merlin pointed to the castle. “ _That_ is obviously the natural habitat of a murderer. You’re mad.”

“Maybe. But she said she knew my mother. I can’t ignore that.”

“Oh, right, and because someone says something, it must be true, and not an excuse to lure some naive clotpole to his untimely demise. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

Arthur took off his gloves, throwing them in Merlin’s face. “No one asked you to come, Merlin.”

“Yes you did! You said, ‘Merlin, prepare the horses, we’re going to Castle Orkney’.”

“All right. No one asked you to _whinge_ the whole way here.”

“Whingeing, being the voice of reason.” Merlin raised one hand higher than the other, and then lifted the other, as if they were a set of scales. “I suppose it would all look the same to you.”

“Right,” Arthur said, and touching the hilt of his sword, rolled his eyes. “Well if you’re quite done.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, I’m the crown prince of Camelot, and I order you to be.”

“And I know what a complete turniphead you are, so I’ll be ignoring that order.” He led the horses to a sturdy oak nearby, and lashed their reins to the lowest branch.

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Well, it might be quite dark. I wouldn’t want you to be nervous. I’m sure the Queen Morgause has something terrible in store, like a warm supper.”

“We’re probably the supper,” Merlin groused as they left the horses and began to climb the slight hill to the drawbridge, which lay in permanent repose on the weedy shores.

There was a deeply unnerving movement in Arthur’s stomach, and his throat; perhaps it was those primitive instincts of the wiser body, in all its seer and ancient shrewdness. Perhaps it was only the darkness, and the shoddiness of the tower. When something cracked in the distant woods, and Merlin jumped, he said, “Would you like to hold my hand?” with a sneer, so that Merlin would not notice he had jumped as well, and brought them closer together. He put his hand on his sword. He tried to remember that Merlin was a sorcerer of at least some significant power. Merlin tried to remember the same thing. They entered the castle, Arthur slightly in front, hand still on his sword. They felt the sere winds of premonition on their necks.

There were torches set in brackets on the walls, so it was that they did not enter in complete darkness; but perhaps that might have been better. In such a guttering light source, there is ample fodder for the already uneasy mind: for the shadows in reptilian amblings skulk from everywhere, and are many-crested. Arthur thought that perhaps Merlin had been right, though of course he could not tell Merlin that. It looked precisely the sort of place one would visit if they wanted to be eaten. The Brothers Grimm would not publish _Hansel and Gretel_ for some centuries, but it had that sort of feel, and it may help the reader to picture the ominous candy house, and the witch in buttery lamplight, hideous, humped. Of course Morgause was no bent hag, and Hansel had a sword, and a sorcerer; but it was all still very ominous, and it is no great surprise that they both looked at one another with a grim fatality, and perhaps had thoughts of a dramatic farewell kiss, though this last cannot be confirmed.

They walked on a bit farther. Merlin latched onto Arthur’s elbow; it was to keep Arthur from doing anything terribly dumb, and because as they left the entryway the torches had begun to thin out, and the darkness to lower. “Don’t be such a girl,” Arthur said out of habit, and reached back to grab Merlin’s wrist with his non-sword bearing hand. It was the sort of situation in which people were whisked in ghostly vanishings down imperceptible side passages, and never seen again.

There was a staff, but they were in keeping with the decor, and rather old, and useless. Morgause could not afford better. Letting two perfect strangers wander round unimpeded for some fifteen minutes was a perfect example of their usual procedures. In fact it was not even the staff who found them; it was the Queen’s only son.

He was a boy of perhaps ten or eleven; it was difficult to tell. He was poorly-fed, and had large eyes. There was about him an aura of frailty that suggested an even more raw youth than his bones.

As there were no horror films in the time of Uther Pendragon, Arthur and Merlin did not know that a lone and eerie child in a sinister building is an indication to the audience that the child is about to kill them, or at least to slam all the doors with a deafening boom and then rattle things about on the walls till the heroes are sufficiently ashamed at what they have done to their trousers. They both felt a welling of pity. The child was clothed in rags; they could see the collar bone sharply raised beneath his flesh.

“Hello, mate,” said Arthur, who liked children, and planned to have at least three of his own. “What’s your name?”

The boy stared at him. Merlin had a Feeling. Arthur had let go of his wrist to squat down before the child with his hand off the hilt of his sword, so the poor wee bloke was not frightened. “Arthur--”

The boy’s eyes, enormous, blue, snapped to him. Merlin stopped. They contemplated one another for a moment. It is still unknown what the boy felt; possibly it was that he felt nothing, and could feel nothing, after years in the company of his mother.

“My name is Mordred,” the boy said finally, looking at Merlin.

Merlin stepped back. He wanted to call out to Arthur; but of course Arthur did not know, and could not know.

The Great Dragon Kilgharrah was by this time of the account a good friend of Merlin’s, and he regularly consulted the beast for answers to whatever was unanswerable; for the dragon had lived long, and could foresee most. He had heard the name already: the boy Mordred was fated to kill Arthur Pendragon. This from the lips of Kilgharrah himself.

Merlin had not known the boy was a literal boy; he had thought him a boy in the sense that all mortal men of piddling decades were boys to the dragon. He had been told the boy Mordred must be destroyed; and now he understood with a hot jolt of nausea that he was to murder a child, before the child could murder Arthur. One day he would be a man, as most children contrived to be; and the man would take from Camelot, and from Merlin, what was most irreplaceable to them.

“Who are you?” Mordred asked, this time to Arthur.

“I’m Arthur, and this is my friend, Merlin. We’re looking for your mother.”

“Mother is boiling my cat,” Mordred said, matter-of-factly.

It is not true that Morgause was too unimaginative, and too stupid, to practise great magic; but it is true that she liked to do little charms to keep herself busy between men, and moreover it is true what you have heard about the cat, and the pitiful bones which she placed between her teeth whilst admiring herself in the mirror. The cat was a pet of Mordred’s he had raised from its first downy beginnings, and carried about underneath his arm to all his little sanctuaries, and they were great friends, and kept no one else in their hearts. This until Morgause said to him that very morning, “Here, darling; mummy needs this” and plucked the cat from his arms and deposited it in the sack she had got for this exact purpose.

The cat was now a scum of oily hair on the sides of her cauldron. It had fought dreadfully to be reunited with his love. It had thought of Mordred as son, father and brother, and ignored their taxonomic diversity; and what a lonely shriek it had sent up, to be separated from him by this unjust barrier, Death.

Arthur stood slowly. “Right.” He looked at Merlin. They both decided to believe that was a euphemism of sorts. “Can you tell us where to find her?”

The boy Mordred turned on his heel. He walked away on soundless toes, as he had learnt to tread when mummy had one of her frequent headaches, and wanted to be left in peace; mummy could hear awfully well, and believed in a heavy hand, when little boys could not do what little boys had been born to do, which was to be silent.

Merlin and Arthur looked at one another again.

“Arthur--” Merlin tried once more, but Arthur had grabbed his wrist again, and hauled him after.

The Queen Morgause was already prepared for them; she had an excellent sense of timing. She had anticipated that Arthur would bring the skinny brunette serving boy, but nevertheless dressed in something appropriately flattering. It never hurt to be as pretty as possible.

“Arthur,” she said warmly when Mordred had taken them into her chambers. The serving boy had been led like an idiot by the wrist into her room, but he looked at her with a sharp sort of knowledge that made her slightly nervous. She did not like clever men; she especially did not like clever men who seemed through their cleverness (or some other unknown means) to be immune to her indefatigable charisma. “Arthur,” she said again, and now took him by his large hands (his very large hands, actually; she thought how disheartening, for a mere serving boy to deprive him of the chance to legitimise that old adage of a man’s glove size). “It’s time you knew the truth about your mother. I think it best that it come from her.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

And then the Queen Morgause bade him close his eyes, and he did, trusting in Merlin to stop any mischief, and it was that when he opened his eyes, before him was a woman he did not know, and inexplicably, did. He blinked. The woman’s face collapsed. “Arthur!” she said, with such tangible love he could not believe this was some malicious chicanery.

It was not; in the same cauldron in which she had boiled the cat, Morgause had cast another spell, a far more complex one, which had required her to earlier knife one of the staff, and drain the fat of his tongue into a vial; and this was perhaps why the staff was not particularly attentive, since it is not often that corporate motivates its employees with such dodgy incentive.

She had in addition to this made a little wax doll of Arthur’s mother; or at least a wax doll that was representative of Arthur’s mother, whom she had seen only once, shortly before the Queen died in childbirth. The rest is not for us to know; but in combination, they accomplished the task of calling Ygrayne back for a visit, as if she had stopped by for tea, before being mashed by a coach. She would need to go back, presently; but for now she was allowed to stand before her son with her eyes full of tears, and to touch his healthy young cheeks, and stroke the hair of spun cornsilk.

Arthur had never known anything of his mother; he had known there was an emptiness inside of him, and inside of his father, and that it was of the same shape; and he knew he was wicked, for the base matricide of this woman so many had treasured. He was so unutterably sorry now, seeing her before him, hardly older than he; he had killed her so young, so beautiful. “Mother?” he whispered.

“I’m here, Arthur,” she said, and hugged him, a real, fine hug, with her hand clasping his head, as if he were a child; he had never been held in this way. He had not known people were held in this way, as if they deserved to be protected from all griefs great and meager.

Merlin had to look away. There were tears in Arthur’s eyes. It seemed an ugly intrusion, to witness this tender concession to his elusive feelings. Merlin cried fairly often, sometimes without any particular awareness of it, because he had been taught that it is no great failing to have emotions, and to expunge them, when they have got painful, and need to be renewed. He was the sort of friend with whom you could have a good cry over a sad movie, without shame.

But Arthur would feel sick, afterward, to recall that he had been weak, that he had been observed in being weak. He did not realise that before a friend is the best place to be fragile. He did not realise that Uther’s conditional love was a thing which Merlin could never comprehend; he did not realise that he could have had the same embrace from Merlin, for any reason, for no reason.

“I’m sorry I killed you,” Arthur said to his mother, with a break in his voice. “I’m so sorry, mother.”

And Ygrayne put him away from her and looked at her fine handsome son and her face in this strange blurred immortality of temporary resurrection took on such an enormous pain, which it is thought the dead do not feel, and it is why we say, for our own comfort, they have passed into better lands, where the sun never frowns, and the flowers are ever undying.

“Oh, my son. Oh, Arthur,” she said, and pressed his face into her neck. “Is that what he told you?”

It befell, in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long time; and the duke was called the Duke of Tintagel.

Perhaps you have heard this before. Perhaps it is that you know what Arthur does not, and have sat, long unbreathing, through all the terrible, inching birth of this revelation. And so it was Merlin found himself similarly arrested, when Ygrayne recalled for her dear unheld child, which she had not even looked upon before expiring in the mess of her blood and afterbirth, how it was that Uther called the Duke of Tintagel to his castle, because he had heard tale of the beauty which the Duke had taken for a wife, and he ‘made them great cheer out of measure, and desire to have lain by her’. And when she did not assent, and bade her husband ride hard for their own castle, in defence of her honour, which she feared to be in great peril, behind the walls of Camelot--when she did not assent, it was that King Uther of Camelot called upon the assistance of magic to give him the face and form of her beloved husband, that he might lay with her after all, and get upon her a son. And brutally slain was her husband, when he unraveled the deception, and then was she married to King Uther of Camelot, for that is the power of an all-powerful man.

“I was barren, Arthur. And when it was that we began to suspect we could not have a child together, Uther went to the Isle of the Blessed, and asked the sorceress Nimueh to bring us one. But you cannot create life without ending one. There must be a balance.”

Arthur had stepped back. For a moment, Merlin thought he might have to catch him; he was desperately unsteady. His mailed arms had dropped limply along either side; he had staggered under the weight of this knowledge, and was now trying to ascertain how it could be that he could ever stand tall again, knowing it. “What?” he whispered. “My father--he sacrificed you?”

“I would give my life again for you, Arthur,” she said, trying to reach out to him. But it was at this point the spell ended of its own natural accord, or else the Queen Morgause had ended it maliciously, to leave poor Arthur muddled, reeling, devastated.

“No! Bring her back! Bring my mother back!” he demanded, spinning on Morgause, who made a convincing enough regretful face, and said, “I cannot, Arthur.”

He turned next to Merlin. There was a trembling in him which seemed as if it could not hold; it seemed as if he could not stay one single man with all his integrated systems, which worked in seamless, unseen harmony. There were crumblings of him beginning to slough off the whole. He could not breathe. It is a thing very like dying, discovering that a parent has deceived us for their own mercenary gain.

“Arthur--” Merlin said, and did not know how to finish. If he had been a little more forceful in his affections, how differently it may have turned out. But he only set his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and said, “Look at me, Arthur.” Arthur needed more. Perhaps if they had gone back to the oak where they had tied the horses, and lain together in the grass, and talked long into the night, and held one another. Perhaps even if Merlin had not been conditioned to touch only those casual junctures of shoulder, of elbow, of forearm. Perhaps if he had instead touched Arthur’s cheek, gently, as he wanted to, and stroked it with his thumb.

But he touched only Arthur’s shoulder, and in the incredible inferiority of this comfort tried to convey, with the press of his fingers, how very loved Arthur was.

And so it was that Arthur shook off his hand, and said tightly, “We’re going,” to Morgause, and rode away to kill his father.

There was one more occurrence of importance in this scene. The boy Mordred was obviously unkempt, unloved; and Arthur was not so mired in his own grief that he did not see it, and long to help. When he turned on his heel to leave, the boy entered once more his consciousness, and his conscience; he stopped. He found that he could not catch his breath; he looked in the midst of this choking upon the boy, and his protruding clavicles, and his protruding knees, and the pale despair in his faded young eyes. There had been an immense cruelty done to him this night, and he could not visit it upon another. He said to Queen Morgause, looking at the boy, “I would like to take your son with me, to come into my service as my page. I give you my solemn word he will be well looked after.”

Morgause had forgotten the boy again, and with a start was rudely recalled to the fact that she had a son in the first place, who had contrived to ruin her body, and to get underfoot when he was least wanted (which is to say anytime he got underfoot).

Merlin stood very still whilst it was decided. Oh, how he trembled inside of him, and went feverish with his own substantial knowledge. He could strike dead a child, or he could let Arthur carry it away in his own arms, and love it with all the warm mercy of which he was capable, until it betrayed him. The boy Mordred was staring at him whilst his mother and Arthur bartered, as if he read and comprehended the struggle. He seemed to have some prescience which frightened Merlin.

It is an unfortunate fact of this wild and disordered world with its hard apathy to decency that sometimes it is our very kindness and pity which is our fatal undoing. In a fair society it would not be so; but man has never intended one of those.

Merlin could not kill a child. You must surely have foreseen this. He let Arthur put the child onto his own noble horse, and mount up behind it. He thought, for his own comfort, that in doing so he had allowed Arthur to make an ally out of an enemy.

If he had known that the Queen Morgause had borne three younger brothers for the boy Mordred, and he had smothered them all in their infancy, so that he might have his mother to himself, Merlin might have determined that it was too late, and brought a swift and painless death to the child’s burning eyes, and borne its mark on his heart for the rest of his days.

  


Arthur handed off the boy to the castle staff upon his return, and bade them make him comfortable. He did not otherwise speak, even to Merlin.

He burst without announcement into the throne room, and threw down his glove, and demanded the king fight him, for honour of his mother.

Uther could not admit to any of the accusations which Arthur hurled at him, because they were true, and that is the hardest thing of all for us to admit to. Instead he said, “I loved your mother, Arthur.” He was not lying, for he had convinced himself that he loved her very much so indeed. He had made the mistake of many rich men, which was to conflate possession with love.

But Arthur had touched her hands, and known in his bones her love, and from his father he had had none of this. He drew his sword.

Merlin burst through the doors some time later, though Sir Leon tried to keep him back, because interrupting the king sans announcement could be considered an act of treason, if the king so pleased it, and then there was always the chance Merlin would have his head cut off, and Sir Leon rather fancied his head, though not, of course, in the way that Arthur fancied it.

He caught them in the final act. Uther had in the beginning refused to draw his own sword; and then he had drawn it out of necessity, and tried to fight Arthur to a standstill. We can say this of him: he did not want to kill his son. In his youth, he likely could have fought Arthur to a standstill, and tossed away both their swords, and they could have finished like brawlers, till the hurt had been pummelled out of them. But he no longer had that early spryness of his fighting days; and he had taught his son too well. Arthur bashed him this way and that about the chamber, and it was obvious to both that he would prevail, and then need to decide what he was going to do with his victory.

He had got Uther on his knees, unarmed, when Merlin ran inside. He had his sword to the king’s throat. He was trying with shaking hand to drive it through his carotid.

“Arthur, stop!” Merlin yelled. He put up his hands, so that Arthur would see there was no threat in him, and stepped slowly round to the side, where Arthur could see him out of the corner of his eye.

“Why should I?” Arthur screamed. “He has hurt so _many_ people. He has hunted, and persecuted them for something he has done himself. For the rape and _murder_ of my mother, he has made magic his accomplice, and then blamed the magic for his own heinous acts. And for his crimes innocents must die.” He re-positioned his sword as it slipped in his sweating hand. “I would be ridding the kingdom of a great evil.”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, in such a tired voice. He did not know how he was to get it out of him. There is no word which we can find in any human lexicon to encompass the difficulty in what he said next. He was severing between himself and his friend the first hope he had seen of persuading Arthur that magic was not an irrefutable wrong, in any hands. He was severing for himself the hope of living outwardly, in full view of his friends, with all the depths of him in bright spotlight for them to accept. “Morgause lied! Arthur, she wanted to turn you against your father. Your mother was only a vision that she conjured. It wasn’t real, any of it. She used...she used magic to turn your mind against him.”

“Listen to him, Arthur,” Uther rasped, staring up into the watering eyes of his son. Arthur lifted his elbow, which had begun to drop, and brought the point of his weapon to bear once more.

“No! No, that was my mother. I know it.”

“No,” Merlin said, swallowing. “Arthur.” And now Arthur looked from his father to Merlin, flexing his fingers on the handle of his sword, his nostrils flaring, his face screwed up so that he was barely recognisable; sometimes it is that such a contortion is the only way to hold inside all the things which we are at risk for spilling.

“Magic,” Merlin continued, taking a deep breath, “is evil. You know that. It corrupts. If you kill your father, you will tear this kingdom apart, and it will have won. Morgause will have won.”

Arthur stared at him, his lips twitching, his fingers shaking on the hilt, all of him trying in frantic disorientation to tear itself in opposite directions. He thought of his mother’s tender fingers on his cheek. He thought of dear, vulnerable Camelot and the scrambling confusion into which regicide would plunge it.

He looked with naked shame into the eyes of Merlin, who had given so much, and was now giving more. Here for the mercy of his future executioner, he told a lie which must nearly have killed him, in the uttering of it.

Arthur dropped his sword.

If he had allowed it of himself more often, he might not have wept as if he had only just invented it, and had now set about testing all its unknown limitations. But he had stored so very much of it inside himself.

He could not do it standing; he purged it all on his knees, with his forehead on the cold stones of the throne room, and his father leaning over him, saying for the first time in recorded memory, “It’s not your fault, Arthur.”

Later, in his chambers, wrung-out, red-eyed, he would say in a subdued voice, “I owe you a great debt, Merlin” and stand quietly while he was undressed.

And Merlin, pulling at his tunic, would say, “You don’t owe me anything, Arthur. You’re my friend.” And for a moment it was that neither felt quite as lonely or helpless in the grasp of inevitable Fate, which had begun to assert its rightful claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'It befell, in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England and so reigned, that there was a mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long time; and the duke was called the Duke of Tintagel.' This is a quote from 'Le Morte d'Arthur', as is ‘he made them great cheer out of measure, and desire to have lain by her’.


	4. Part Four

Well, it has all been cheerful enough thus far, aside from the bits of foreshadowing, and the dead horse, and the patricide, and the slow and creeping revelation that Arthur should have to die lonely, in the fallow asylum of some long and loveless marriage. Aside from all of that, it has been quite the pleasant jaunt. But you must remember: history is not like that. It cannot pass on soft and cautious tiptoe all of human propensity to err. History is driven, firstly, by a malicious act, and then its momentum is arrested or redirected by a kindly shoulder which has thrown itself wearily into the path of the boulder. The cruelty, we are sorry to say, is crucial to all the various disquiet of mankind’s progression. In order to advance the legacy of King Arthur, it is necessary; and even in order to crown him in the first place, it is necessary. Into the roiling pot of human avarice we must necessarily dive.

There were now some months between Arthur’s attempted murder of Uther. In fact it was winter, bitterly. Naturally neither of them had forgotten the event, and would never forget the event; but there had been the adequate amount of water under the bridge for them to both pretend, with varying degrees of success, that they had forgotten it. Mordred was an especial concern of Arthur’s, probably because he had been, through the neglect of his only surviving parent, essentially parentless; and no elaboration is required to explain why this should move Arthur, and prompt him into a paternal role. He expected Merlin, naturally, to adopt the same role, and viewed them (though he was not quite aware of this, and should have denied it if he was) as co-fathers. Merlin, equally naturally, would rather have co-fathered a wyvern. He had informed the Great Dragon Kilgharrah of this latest development in his Destiny, and been soundly told off. “Are you fucking _dim_?” the Great Dragon had snapped (we have paraphrased slightly).

But there was no dissuading Arthur, who was trying, with only some success, to pour all his unfailing affection for his untouchable manservant into this quiet boy. But you cannot replace one kind of love with another; and though his heart was certainly big enough for the two, and he came genuinely to care for the boy Mordred, in the manner of a son, or younger brother, it was a disappointing truth (to Arthur at least) that his pining had accelerated rather than decelerated, as he had meant it to do. Perhaps if he had not still carried about the hurt of his father’s betrayal, and been obliged to bury it, and to pretend it had only been the devious conspiracy of that common enemy magic which had turned them in fatal riposte against the other. The truth of it was this: he was of pathetic and yearning thirst, and often felt in his belly the distressing ripples of unease, as if the silt of him had got all stirred up, and was now frantically deciding where it ought to be put back. It could not be trained out of him. It could not be starved out of him (though he tried, not from some poetic anorexia, which in song or epic always whittles away its victim most romantically, by sharpening the cheekbones, and marbling the flesh in that sweet translucence of rain-washed bloom; he was simply not hungry).

In the days and weeks immediately following Arthur’s attack on Uther, Merlin fretted. He was afraid something essential had burnt out in his friend. Arthur walked about in a shambling sort of insomnia. He was dressed silently, without commenting on Merlin having pinched this or that, or muddled the laces. He did not complain about anything Merlin did, in fact, and even once said, absently, ‘Thank you, Merlin’ when he brought in supper, though the stew was rather cold, and certainly the meat stringy. He sat unnagging, when Merlin dropped his armour, or spilt his wine.

It was that he had become too heavy for himself. There were two betrayals which he carried about in grim penitence as the prisoner lugs his fetters. The first was Uther’s; the second was his. If he could simply, as if flicking some switch, stop loving his father, he might not have towed about the first. He certainly would not have borne the second. The second was the more malicious, for him. He had held a sword to the throat of a tyrant, and failed to uphold the oath he had taken for himself, to defend the just and merciful, because the tyrant had been his father. Moreover, he had failed a friend; in fact, the best of them. He had given clemency to Merlin’s hangman. He had not afterward even explained to Merlin that he knew what a lot of rot he had spoken, in his denigration of magic and its users. Intellectually, he knew the less said, the less overheard; and if he could keep the secret from everyone, even from Merlin, there was no possibility of a fatal disclosure.

But still it was a hard thing to manage, and he did it poorly. He rode out on patrol; he trained his knights; he came in to be changed, and fed, and put to bed. He was like an infant not fully-formed, when the personality is still nebulous, and individuality mere zygotic possibility.

We all have to get over our misery eventually. Or, at least, to understand it, so that we may better keep it. Eventually, it must not drive us to bed, or to drink, but be a peripheral awareness we know, and then forget.

Arthur eventually remembered that he had to live, and this is no simple animation of the carapace in which we are bounced about. He started by berating Merlin over forgetting to make up his bed; and slowly living in all its vile and miraculous fire was breathed once more into him. He still had longing in all its fizzy unrest, disturbing his appetite, and making him linger over his hair. Certainly this would eventually come to a head. But he did not know that; and still less did Merlin, who was only relieved Arthur had resorted once more to throwing pillows at him in the morning, and grousing about the fire having not yet been lit.

Morgana had found peace in her now still slumbers, which were like the surface of a morning lake in first daylight. She turned over in her bedcovers, and smiled frequently. It might seem that Destiny had made a mistake in naming her its weapon, but for one thing: she was pathetically grateful to the Queen Morgause, and she did not like to be in debt. It is quite unnecessary to say that Uther no longer welcomed Morgause in the kingdom of Camelot, no matter how enormous her chastity. But neither could he disturb her, since it was that Castle Orkney lay beyond his borders, in Lot’s lands, and it would be war to charge in with sword waving, and stab her through her aforementioned chastity. It was simply forbidden that any more of his children should see her ever again, and that was that.

That was not that, however, because Morgana had always considered orders (especially those by men) to be more of a guideline which one could follow or ignore as they saw fit. She had tea every other Tuesday with Morgause. (We must say: it was not actually tea, since tea was not popularised in Britain till the 17th century; but to say they had tea conjures a certain image which is close enough to the reality, so we shall stick with it, to give you the feeling.)

This was all happening concurrently; whilst Arthur was mourning, and pining, and deciding which way his fringe ought to lie, to best bring out his handsomeness, Morgana was developing her trust in Morgause. This being a long and arduous process, she would not yet be ripe for some time, and so she did not yet know that Uther was her father, or that the nightmares were of magical origin, and thought Morgause quite a friend like any other. We must of course circle back to this. But while the friendship percolated, laying down its silent roots, there was a Quest, and not one which we think it prudent to ignore.

The Quest came about in the following way. Arthur had to perform a great deed, in order for the kingdom to accept him as its rightful heir. This may seem a bit redundant, as the peasants knew the deal with the order of succession and all that rubbish, and moreover they were perfectly accepting of Arthur, who it seemed to them was going to rule with the soft hand of a manager who lets you off early, because you have made an awful lot of wet-eyed noise about your sick child, or a dog, or even a salamander, which he was once caught rescuing from a lot of tramping hunters.

“You don’t have to prove anything to the people of Camelot, Arthur; they love you,” Merlin said, and was harshly shushed by Arthur, who was trying to hold a vigil. He was kneeling on the cold floor of the empty throne room in a virginal white tunic, asking God to suggest something noble, and dangerous, and nobly dangerous. “I’m just saying,” Merlin whispered, miffed.

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur hissed.

“Well, I think it’s useless, is all. For you to risk your life so you can prove it’s your right to be king, when everyone already knows it’s your right to be king. I mean, no one’s disputing your legitimacy, so why the--”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur hissed again, and broke his vigil to slam the door in Merlin’s face.

“I’m only saying, is all,” Merlin put in, opening it again.

It is doubtful that God spoke to him, or if He did, that Arthur was even capable of hearing Him, over the arguing. But he did emerge with a Task, which probably he had thought up all on his own, owing to the difficulty of it, and the fact that if God liked him even a bit, He probably would not have suggested a Quest quite so brimming with Certain Death. The Quest which God (or rather his own temerity) had proposed  to him was to find the Fountain of Youth. Now, this fountain has been around for a very long time; Herodotus mused on it in the days of heathen societies; it was also in the _Historia Alexandri Magni_ , and the writings of Prester John. There was some muddled version of it in most cultures, since humanity has always been a base and vain creature, looking backward to the sweet pink flower of twenty-five. The trouble, however, was not really in finding it; the trouble was in getting to it. In the time of Uther Pendragon, rumours had long been floated that it was located in the Perilous Lands, and several brave and swaggering champions had made for it, and were never seen again.

Uther thought it a fine challenge. Merlin thought it a daft fool’s errand.

“Well, fortunately for you, it has to be completed alone, so you won’t be coming. Make sure you pack an extra cloak; it’s going to be a cold ride.”

You ought not to be very surprised to discover that Merlin discussed the whole thing with Gwaine, and it was decided that Arthur was a bleedin’ thick who thought training blindfolded against his best knights implied a certain invincibility which he did not have, and certainly not in a place like the Perilous Lands, which are bad enough on paper, and far worse in person.

Naturally, they followed Arthur at a discreet distance the following morning when he set out.

Merlin had packed warmly enough for Arthur, but not for himself; he had been fooled by the temperate week into believing that winter had begun to get over itself, and settle with a grumble into the knowledge that spring was hot (or at least lukewarm) on its heels. He shivered all through the morning, till Gwaine noticed, and gave up his own cloak. (This was upsetting to Arthur, later, when they caught up to him, since it seemed to him a very intimate thing that ought to have been his express domain.)

They had not meant to present themselves till they had actually reached the Perilous Lands, and even then only if Arthur had got himself into a spot of trouble, so that he would have no choice but to be at least grudgingly thankful when they came rushing to his dashing rescue. However, Merlin was absolutely pants at stealth, and led his horse over all the crackliest bits of the woods, and flushed out a copious amount of birds, and nesting rabbits, and whacked himself on a branch, and then cursed the branch roundly, and afterward walked the poor horse into a stream, and after _that_ into some blackberry brambles, so it was that he tipped his hand not even an hour into the whole endeavour.

Arthur was furious in the beginning, and refused to acknowledge them. Then it became rather a comfort, to listen to Merlin fussing about ineptly, and whispering at nearly full volume back to Gwaine, who kept up a rambling dialogue almost without pause.

Finally, he sighed, rubbed his forehead, and called, “Merlin, come out.”

“What?” Merlin said, as if he still had some idea of trying to keep up the ruse.

“Come _out_. I’ve known you were there ever since we crossed Camelot’s border.”

Merlin clicked to his horse, and steered it out of the trees, and into full view of Arthur. He was wearing Gwaine’s cloak, and smiling somewhat sheepishly.

“What part of ‘Merlin, I have to complete this task _alone_  did you not understand?” he demanded, ignoring the cloak. (Well, actually, he had not ignored the cloak, he had only _told_ himself he’d ignored the cloak, when in reality he was fully aware of it, and offended by it. He did not know how it was that Gwaine considered himself entitled to that sort of possessiveness, when _he_ had hardly shared an admittedly awkward, unskilled, but profoundly momentous true love’s kiss with Merlin not half a year ago. It was unspeakably rude, to overstep one’s bounds like that.)

“Well, I didn’t think you meant _alone_ , as in without me alone.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, so that Merlin would not think he was pathetically pleased that Merlin considered them inextricably bound. _Gwaine_ was not inextricably bound, and if he had told Merlin to let him alone, Merlin probably would have let him alone.

The sun had been friendly enough that morning, and all into the afternoon, so that whilst Merlin, in his smaller, less padded frame, might have found it bothersome, Arthur was comfortable enough in his mail and cloak, and Gwaine only a little less comfortable in just his mail. The night was not quite so amiable, and there was a frost that came on; and in the trees the wind moaned with spiritual unrest, and tricked its way into all the gaps of their armour, and snuffed with malicious glee the struggling campfire. They had to lie huddled against one another, Merlin in the middle, because he was the thinnest, and because Gwaine and Arthur had fought long and arduously with their eyes over who got to sleep next to him.

There were many such nights; it was a week’s ride to the edge of the Perilous Lands, and they passed the whole of it in relative ease, aside from the cold, and the bickering which the cold brought out in them, and the raging libido which the proximity of Merlin’s warm body brought out in Arthur. It is a very awkward thing, to be up first thing in the morning for a bit of tupping, and to be obliged to hide it, especially in a pair of leggings, and then to be obliged to let it fizzle out naturally, since there is not much subtlety in going off into a nearby bush and handling yourself most passionately. It’s rather like ignoring the elephant in the room, if the elephant were phallic-shaped, and frolicsome. After a week of this, Gwaine was ready to throw them both into a thick copse himself, and stand guard till they had got it all out of Arthur’s system, and everyone could make comfortable eye contact again. He was not blind to the difficulties in fucking one’s manservant, when one had a close-minded despot for a father; but he was also tired of watching Arthur conduct himself like a complete geebag.   

The Perilous Lands were, in addition to their unpleasant name, a thoroughly unlovely stretch of barren rock peopled by a lot of distasteful rubbish such as wyverns, griffins, a travelling salesman, and the giant of Mont Saint-Michael, who it has been told stands five fathoms tall, snarls like a greyhound, has the mouth of a flounder, the skin of a frog, and the portly silhouette of a ripe feeder pig. Merlin was particularly nervous about the last; it sounded like just the thing to guard a Fountain of Youth. Arthur ordered him to stop being such a ninny; probably anyone of that particular stature had better things to do than lumber about in plain sight, waiting for handsome knights to appear and muff up his self-esteem.

They did not encounter the giant, but they did have a nasty run-in with a griffin that spooked Merlin’s horse, and having swiftly gutted the poor thing, then tried to fly off with Merlin in its talons. Arthur had already dismounted the moment it spooked Merlin’s horse, with Gwaine only a beat behind him; in unison they set upon it, and slew it heroically. But they were all a bit shaken, especially as Merlin had not come out of it unscathed, having aside from the loss of his horse suffered a slice from the talons, deeply enough that Arthur had to pull up his tunic and frown at the wound, and then look to Gwaine with a significant lift of his eyebrows.

“Ohh, if my guts are hanging out, don’t tell me,” moaned Merlin, throwing his arm over his eyes. He did not think his stomach hurt enough for that, but it is always hard to say how painful evisceration is when you have never experienced it for yourself. Certainly it looked unpleasant.

Arthur poked him hard in the shoulder. “Don’t be such a coward, Merlin. You’ll do; but we had better bandage it.”

After that, Merlin had to ride double with Arthur, and put his arms round Arthur’s waist, which in less treacherous territory would have distracted Arthur awfully. For the moment he was only grateful it was now more difficult for anything to eat Merlin, since it would have to get through him first.

There was aside from the griffin a clutch of wyverns that chased them into a foreboding castle, and there trapped them with the bones of its former inhabitants till Merlin, waiting for Gwaine to nod off, and Arthur to step out for a much-needed piss, rolled up his sleeves and walked empty-handed into the courtyard, squaring his shoulders.

Arthur had found a garderobe in which to relieve himself, and was returning from this satisfying trip when he passed a window, and in passing it, noticed out of the corner of his eye Merlin standing in the courtyard with his hands raised. He opened his mouth to yell something; probably a word we cannot repeat. His mouth stopped in that gaping position.

There was a terrible sort of thrill in watching the creatures dive with hawk-like swoops upon the small man-shape of his friend, far beyond his help. From here, Merlin was only a vague spot of Camelot red tunic, and blue neckerchief; his hair stood alert in the thundering winds.

Arthur thought, for a moment, that it was only timely Nature which threw down its condemnations from irate Zeus, to strike dead the fluttering beasts. And then Merlin lowered his hands, and the winds ceased, and the clouds shrank away, and the static disturbances which roused in uneasy rows the hairs of his forearms tingled and were gone.

For precisely three seconds, he was in awe.

And then he went bowling down the stairs, and into the courtyard, as it had presently struck him that Merlin, sorcerer or no, had just taken it upon himself to fight three wyverns single-handedly without so much as a warning, or even a lingering good-bye look.

He seized Merlin by the ear. “What in _God’s name_ are you doing?” he yelled.

“Ow! Arthur, let go!”

“What the hell are you doing out here by yourself?”

“The wyverns are dead, Arthur, look--there was a storm--”

“I can’t believe you just _walked out here_ like a completely unforgivable _idiot_ \--or did the griffin not give you enough of a thrill, Merlin, you absolute _incompetent_ \--”

“What’s the racket?” Gwaine called down from a window, and poked his head out it, his fabulous hair only slightly less fabulous for having been slept on. “His ear owe you money, Princess? Let him up.”

There followed an unknightly squabble about how Gwaine should _make_ him, which Gwaine was perfectly happy to do, and it was very much on the verge of dissolving into something undignified, such as a slap fight, when Merlin struck Arthur over the head with one of his own gloves, and Arthur had to stop, and blink a lot, in order to process whether his manservant had actually just _laid hands_ upon him.

Afterward there was a bog that Gwaine had to be drug out of, and then he was sat next to the fire in his braies to air out, because the bog had smelt like a tunic Arthur had shoved under his bed and then forgotten about. Arthur had entertained, only for a moment, the uncharitable thought that if he left Gwaine in the bog, there would be no more division of Merlin’s affections; and the cloak which flapped from his shoulders would then need to be Arthur’s, and Arthur’s alone. But he only entertained it for the moment we have mentioned. Gwaine was a good man; and if anything happened to Arthur, there would need to be someone to look after Merlin, since Merlin did not even have the good sense to avoid single combat with a whole flock of mythical murderers.

It was fifteen days into their trip, and over a week into the Perilous Lands themselves, that they came upon the Fountain. Or, it was _a_ fountain, at any rate, and it seemed too much a coincidence that there should be a fountain in the Perilous Lands, without it being _the_ fountain. Certainly it seemed legendary enough. It was not particularly extraordinary looking, but when the three men stood before it, they felt something inside of them which could only be sorcery. Or else bad digestion (they had eaten some rather suspicious cheese the previous evening). Merlin touched the stonework of it, cautiously; and Arthur prepared to leap in, and pull him out of the trajectory of whatever creature was bound to come bursting out of it. The waters lay in a quiet silkiness at the bottom of the fountain, minding their own business. They reflected back the face of first Merlin, and then Arthur, and finally Gwaine. They looked at one another in the reflection.

“How do we tell if it’s the Fountain of Youth?” Gwaine asked.

“There’s no telling,” Merlin said. “I guess we just take a cup of it back?” He took out his flask.

They found out in a rather rudimentary way. In the act of filling his flask, Merlin somehow fell in. No one was precisely certain how this happened, though it did not surprise Arthur. He dipped his arm into the fountain, and came out holding the plump ankle of an infant.

He nearly dropped it.

It wailed, and hit him in the eye with its rosy fist.

If an elderly man had taken a header into the fountain, he would have emerged freshly lacquered with that aureate shimmer of the twenty something. Merlin, however, was only twenty-four; he did not have any years to be trimmed off.

Arthur righted the screaming thing in his arms. Gwaine gave it his finger to suck on. They looked at one another in a frozen horror. “Well,” said Gwaine. “This has gone pear-shaped.”

They debated how they should handle it. Merlin contributed with a lot of waving about of his fists, and contortions of his face which suggested they ought to come by the solution quickly, if they did not want a tragedy done to the cloak in which they had wrapped him (Arthur had been happy to use Gwaine’s cloak this time).

“There’s got to be something that will age him.”

“Council meetings,” Arthur suggested dryly, taking his sleeve out of Merlin’s mouth. “You know, he’s only marginally more annoying like this.”

“We can’t take him back like this. Gaius would have the skin off us.”

“Maybe we could give him to Morgana; she could use something cute to look after. Then maybe she could stop telling me how to dress. I know how to _coordinate_ ,” Arthur said with some bitterness in his voice, bouncing Merlin. He felt the helpless protectiveness of an adult toward its defenceless miniature, which was somewhat disconcerting, seeing as how only ten minutes before, the defenceless miniature had been an adult male he would have dearly loved to boff.

They had not got any brilliant revelations by evening, and had to make camp whilst Merlin fussed, and refused to go quietly into the night during the changing of his nappy (of which Gwaine was in charge). They tried to feed him a bit of cheese; he spit it into Arthur’s face. Arthur considered spitting it back at him; he was not particularly interested in taking the high road. He was wet, knackered, and had got spit-up on his armour.

Then Merlin had to be burped, which they accomplished by walking round the campfire, bobbing him on their shoulders, and singing to him. If he had been Merlin Merlin, rather than infant!Merlin, he would have admired Arthur’s singing voice, which was a rarely exercised instrument, and not hardly bad at all, for that. He was shy about it, and could only have used it on an infant. In fact when Gwaine returned from his nightly ablutions, he stopped entirely, and cleared his throat, and looked vulnerable. The wee infant Merlin had become absorbed in the links of his mail, and had settled down against his chest to play with them.

Gwaine afterward fell into a hard slumber with Merlin on his chest, Arthur’s cloak over them both.

They lived some three days like this, despairing over the possibility of ever having back their own Merlin, who was sick significantly less often, and did not find it delightful to pull Arthur’s hair. They had fashioned out of Merlin’s tunic a sort of sling so that Gwaine could carry him on his chest, and have the freedom of both his hands, and they rode out in this nervous way toward the edge of the Perilous Lands, having been reduced to the option of pleading mercy from Gaius, who might possibly be capable of assistance, after he had finished tearing several new orifices in the pair of them.

On the fourth morning, Arthur, who had the night previous fallen asleep against a tree whilst rocking Merlin into a hard-won slumber, woke to find Merlin curled in a very naked way in his lap. This would have been perfectly acceptable, if Merlin had not through some mysterious means regained his previous form. As it happened, he was now very naked in the way of adult males who have outgrown all the expectations of their slight figures, which suggest the skinniness ought to be repeated everywhere. It was not repeated everywhere. Arthur yelped, and threw him bodily.

Gwaine woke blurrily to this commotion, and in delight called out, “Merlin!” hardly seeming to even notice that he was naked.

Arthur regained some of his confidence after Merlin had dressed, and then set to the important business of never allowing him to live down the whole affair.

When they returned at last to Camelot, Arthur presented the flask to Uther, who sniffed it suspiciously for a moment, as it appeared to be ordinary water, and ordinary water is hardly a thing to have gathered all the teeming court for. “You’re sure this is from the Fountain of Youth?”

“Positive, Sire,” Arthur said, formally, so he wouldn’t burst out laughing, and ruin the secret of his accompaniment.

Uther handed it off to a doddering old man to be tested; the doddering old man was firstly, a doddering old man; and secondly, a peasant, so it was really no skin off anyone’s nose if he didn’t make it. The man tossed it back, and stood for a moment, contemplating the movements of his veins.

And then there came the ripple among the court, and the whisperings behind open hands, and the slow susurration of the applause which the people offered for the tremendous feat of their handsome young ruler. (The people were later disappointed to learn the effects were only temporary--and no one more so than the doddering old man--but it was hardly the fault of Arthur that the reality was not quite so wondrous as the myth, which you will often find in trying to reconcile the terse materiality of the living world to those rosy wanderings of an enamoured pen. And anyway, he had still achieved something yet undone by any brash son of Adam.) There was only one test remaining, which was that of the Sword In the Stone; but we shall come back to that, in time.

  
  


Morgana, as we have said, met Queen Morgause for tea every other Tuesday. This was to continue all through the winter, and well into the spring. When the one had ceded reluctantly to the other, and the countryside had given itself once more into the hands of the common gorse, the Queen Morgause judged it was Time, and sat her down to gently explain to her the nature of her nightmares. This first; and afterward, the secret of her birth. In one fell blow she made the whole of Camelot into a common enemy. It was neatly done, and in 1930s Germany would be repeated again. If you can find for the People a direction in which they are to aim their fear, you will find that soon afterward there is a chemical reaction which transforms it into hatred; and hatred is the most fruitful of human inventions.

In this way she isolated Morgana from her friends, who were not Other. She teased her out from this inner circle in the way you tease out a single yarn from a tangle of skeins. You must do this delicately, so the separate threads do not feel that premonitory whispering of the fingers along their neighbours, and wind themselves more stubbornly. She did it in this way: she had the unwitting help of King Uther. Over the course of their bi-monthly tea parties, he executed another four sorcerers, or probable sorcerers; in the time of Uther Pendragon, due process did not yet exist, and the only reasonable doubt which could be had in the instance of a sorcery charge was whether or not you had done properly, beheading them rather than burning them. There was some debate over which yielded better results in terms of cowing the people.

Arthur stood in quiet opposition to these executions, but Morgana did not know that. She only heard, through Gwen, who had it from Merlin, that Arthur had been confined to his chambers by an incensed Uther for some indiscretion of the disobedience variety. There are so many haunting ‘ifs’ in the brief life of Morgana Pendragon. If she had known Arthur had been turned in the struggle against sorcery; if she had known about Merlin’s own secret powers; if she had not known about her burgeoning own. We cannot linger on these ‘ifs’. We know what was. This is the great tragedy of history: that we are to sit, and fret, and let it rush at us, seeing in our modern wisdom where it could have been mended, and waiting with sick heart for it to come on as it is.

Gwen noticed a new pallidness in her lady’s cheeks, and thought the nightmares had returned, and changed out the pillows, and placed lavender pleasingly round the bed, and sat prepared, at any hour, to come in and hold her lady’s trembling hand.

Arthur and Merlin were, concurrent to this, rushing toward their own perhaps tragic crossroads which Destiny guided with relatively lax hand, waiting to see how they would muddle through independently. Things would need to come to a head. Arthur had thought, youthfully, that love is a thing which can be tutted off into a more convenient place, and brought out when it is quite welcome, or else never brought out at all. He was of at least 70% confidence in his willpower; 25%, after he had seen Merlin naked, and held him sleepily on his lap. But that is not 0%, as he would like to remind you. Merlin’s cognisance of the entire scene was a bit blurry, having been an infant for most of it, and consequently having been concerned with, in the following order, pulling the Irishman’s shiny hair, and pooping. He was aware that he had been naked on Arthur’s lap; he was aware that Arthur had not hated it. He was not much aware of anything else. Arthur, conversely, was aware of everything, and was ready to burst with his love, and with other things which he had to talk down in the mornings, before Merlin came in to dress him.

He was enamoured with most of the things Merlin did, and gave him extra chores to make up for it. Then he daydreamed about Merlin doing the extra chores, and thought about how sometimes what meager muscles he had shifted about under his tunic, or in his arms when he had rolled back the sleeves of his coat. This made him wonder what the muscles did when Merlin gripped things in hot and shaking hand, perhaps early in the morning, or after he had first slipped beneath the scratchy clothes of his humble bed. (You must understand that in Arthur’s fantasies he was of course thinking of Merlin gripping buckets, or sponges, or any one of the various appurtenances which his chores required. In bed. Sweatily. With his eyelids flickering. Sponges, you may not know, require quite an emission of force, so of course all the sweating and eyelid flickering is necessary in managing the exertion.)

There were some charming moments; during a hunt Arthur appeared to be reaching back for Merlin’s hand rather than the bag which he held, and there was a startled silence in which Merlin came to the striking realisation, whilst holding Arthur’s hand, that after all Arthur had only _appeared_ to be reaching for him, and then there was a fantastic row over how the _hell_ Merlin could have possibly entertained that absurd notion whilst Gwaine mumbled, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” to the sky, and scratched his chin. The following week, Arthur spotted Merlin coming out of a linen closet with a maid, who had lured him there under the false pretense that she had seen a mouse, and was scared. He had gone in with perfectly innocent intentions; the maid had gone in after him with significantly less innocent intentions. But in the matter of actually seducing him she suddenly became rather craven, and spent her time giggling instead, so there was no harm done, till they emerged into the corridor down which Arthur happened to be walking. The linens had upset Merlin’s hair, and crawling about on his knees pulled the tunic off-centre, so that he looked as if he had been up to mischief; and the maid supported this impression by flushing brightly in the unexpected presence of her prince, and curtseying in an embarrassed flurry.

Merlin did not consider how it looked, till he spotted the expression on Arthur’s face, which was thunderous. There was a fantastic row over how even _Merlin_ could not be so stupid as to think Arthur would believe he had tumbled about in a linen closet with a comely young servant on account of a mouse; and then it was that Merlin said he sounded like a jilted wife, and Arthur spluttered, and choked on whatever it was which had closed up in his throat, and snapped that if anyone was to be the wife, certainly it was Merlin, and this was most definitely not the thing to say. Merlin asked, under his breath, though there was no one else about, “Arthur...are you jealous?”

The answer Merlin was looking for was ‘yes’, and then they could snog wildly, and afterwards rub noses and cuddle in a moist way in Arthur’s bed (he was a bit of a romantic). The answer he got was a smack to the back of his head.

In the meantime, Morgause was taking the shame out of Morgana’s heart, one prickling guilt at a time, as if she were picking out splinters. This was done in stages, so that Morgana would know her magic was a thing over which she must feel humiliated, except in the presence of dear, understanding Morgause, in whose arms she must shelter. She was young; she did not want to die. I do not think we can blame her for that. We must bear out the consequences of our own silly, terrible mass of human blundering. But it is not wrong to be young, and frightened; and sometimes in all our tender innocence of 23, we trust the first friendly face which has risen through the pall of crisis. This was Morgana’s mistake; and the rest would be her choice.

Spring went out; and in its place summer came on moodily, lashing out with rain one day, and sun the next. This was a good, hearty sun, which baked the vigour right out of you, and left the knights limp in their drills. Even Arthur did not have the heart to excel, and chopped in an absent-minded way at the practice dummies. It was during this he had another love charm placed on him, by unknown assailants. There was an obnoxious princess from a neighbouring kingdom who had her sights on his marital bed, and whether it was she or one of her retinue who did the mischief has never been uncovered. Regardless, the result was the same; he straightened up from his absent-minded chopping as if he had been struck by lightning, or a glimpse of Merlin in the mornings, when his tunic rode up whilst he was attending the fire. He went off to change into something appropriate in which to announce his intentions of betrothal before king and court.

Merlin was in his room, puttering about, as he did. He was folding some of Arthur’s tunics, and humming.

“Merlin!” Arthur called out brightly, sailing into the chambers with a sprightly step. Merlin found this a bit odd, as his usual mood following a hard (or hot) practice was to remove his clothing, and then to throw the clothing in Merlin’s face whilst making a lot of general and sulky noise about how easy Merlin had it, and how ignorant he was of this luxury, and how broadly lazy and useless it made him. Today he said with great cheer, “Give me the blue tunic. You know, the one that brings out my eyes.” Merlin knew exactly the one he meant. He fished it out with slow and suspicious fingers.

“Any special reason for the blue tunic?”

“I’m going to be married!” Arthur crowed, swinging from one of the posts of the bed as if he were doing a musical number, and the epochal song was upon him.

“ _What_ ?” Merlin had heard nothing of this, and he had heard something of anything that concerned Arthur, even when he did not want to. “To _who_?”

“Princess Laudine,” he sighed, swaying again round the bed post. The mail came off, musically, and collected itself into a heap on the bed.

Merlin set down his stack of laundry. “Last night you said you’d rather marry Gwaine-- _oh_.” He had got it quickly this time, having seen the idiot stare, and the dumbly pleasant enthusiasm already before. Arthur was never dumbly enthusiastic about anything, unless it was tormenting Merlin, and even then, that was a shrewd sort of thing, in which a sharpened eye was fixed upon him, as a bird of prey fixes its eye upon a rabbit.

“Well, I’m off to tell my father,” Arthur said, having forgotten all about the blue tunic in his eagerness, and gamboling toward the door on coltish legs, which in moments of great fear or ardour are always of newborn water, going this way when we have told them to go that.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried out. He got a hand on the back of his tunic; he had interceded before Arthur had managed to reach the door. He swung him round.

There was probably not in his mind any preconceived plan; there was only a panicked instinct to avoid an international scandal, or another tourney. It could not have been preconceived, really, it was so poorly formed a plan. There are approximately 2,041 love charms in the _Clavicula Salomonis_ , and we are speaking of the earlier manuscripts, and not its later editions, which might have contained even more. These are then divided into five main categories, and from there subdivided into another fifteen. This is to say: love charms are not a universal bane. They are not all cast in precisely the same mould, and they are not all cured in precisely the same mould. And this is to say: sometimes True Love’s Kiss does not work. Merlin might have waited till Gaius at least had identified the nature of the charm, and cross-checked this against known cures. He did not. He grabbed the front of Arthur’s tunic in his hands, and kissed him.

This was not a long kiss, but he did it properly this time. He did not pull back as if his life depended upon it. He kissed Arthur with a rough insistence, as if putting his back into it would help the cure set.

This was over in less time than it has taken to write the paragraph which details it. It is not what we are getting at.

When Merlin pulled back this time, he kept their foreheads pressed together. Their noses had squished against one another in that sloppy disinterest towards good form, and they were now still touching at the tips. Merlin could not catch his breath; it had lasted all of three seconds, and taken everything he was.

Arthur was being held up by Merlin’s forehead, and the hands in his tunic. One of them was shaking; probably it was him. He could not tell; he had lost his usual awareness of his body, and now the two were confused in his mind, his and Merlin’s, and where they didn’t meet, and where they did.

He turned his head so their noses brushed alongside each other; the cheek underneath him was clean-shaven. He rested his own on it, and breathed. Sometimes love is such a raw and chafing thing; if we could only see with what coarse touch it handled his heart.

They breathed into one another with such soft caution. I think it was that neither could move. They were afraid of returning. They were afraid of this moment, and the one which had to come after, when it was that all the hooting world reasserted itself in the dumb and blundering ignorance of all the things which are not love, and do not care for it.

Merlin touched Arthur’s cheek. He did it so gently, in case it was that Arthur wanted to turn away. He did not want to startle him; he did not want to force him.

Arthur was not any good at this; he was utter rubbish, if we are being polite. But he wanted somehow for Merlin to know, without him having to name things that were unnameable. He wanted to convey by his own poor and clumsy methods the things which Merlin was conveying far more elegantly, with the hand on Arthur’s cheek, gently, gently. He turned his face with shy unease into the palm of Merlin’s hand. He did not kiss it; but he let his lips rest against it, and shuddered in its hold.

“Merlin,” he said at last, hoarsely, “what are you doing?”

“There was another love charm,” Merlin said, breathlessly, and leaned into him. He rubbed his nose against Arthur’s; he could feel the soft and springing push of Arthur’s lashes against his palm. He brought the hand which was not touching Arthur’s cheek out of the tunic, and lifted it, carefully, to Arthur’s hair. He stroked the nape of the neck; he pressed them harder together, and clung to him. He was not bashful in touching the things he touched with a tender hand; he did not think it a weakness, to put his hands on someone he loved as if he were saying the very things his mouth found it difficult to utter, and which Arthur would find it difficult to hear. He was happy to betray his feelings with the slow caressing of his cold and shaking fingers.

This was why Arthur remembered the magic, and his father’s ire. If Merlin had taken his face in his hands, and kissed him madly, he would have forgot them. He would have taken them both to the bed, and sank rashly beneath voluminous covers, with Merlin in his arms. But lust had not had time to work on him; the hands were not needy on his nape, they were devoted. What a vast and squeezing ache there was inside him, in that moment. He thought it should crush him. How wild and heedless love, to damn its own victims for the wounds it has struck.

He took the hand from the nape of his neck, and the one from his cheek. He squeezed them both, meaningfully, he hoped.

He stepped away, and cleared his throat.

Afterward they consulted Gaius, having made some adjustments to their story.

“Why so many love charms?” Merlin asked, sitting on the workbench, though Gaius had told him twice to get down. Arthur was on a stool, looking pensive.

“Well, Merlin, it’s not so strange after all; they’re easy to cast, and quite hard to break. How was it you broke this one?”

“Oh, I just...tried some herbs on him. Got lucky, I suppose.”

“Hmm. Herbs,” said Gaius, who knew exactly what they had done (well, perhaps not exactly, but he had got the general shape of it). “That was lucky indeed. Anyway, there are many advantages to a love charm; a marriage to Arthur would be a boon to any young woman.”

“A boon, Merlin--remember that when you’re complaining about your duties. _Some_ people consider me an honour.” He had regained some of his equilibrium with the compliment. He rubbed the back of his neck, and smiled up gently, looking from beneath his eyebrows at Merlin.

Merlin scoffed. “They probably keep casting them on you because they can’t imagine you’d have a true love anywhere, waiting to break it.”

“I thought you said you gave him some herbs?” Gaius pointed out, crossing his arms.

“Erm, yeah; I was talking about the...the other one, you know. At the tourney.”

“Well, _Mer_ lin, that’s a smug tone to take, for the one who broke it. Probably the spell mistook you for a girl, and made assumptions, since you’re always lurking about.”

“Either way, it’s done,” Gaius intervened before it could become a full argument. It was his bedtime; he did not have the energy to listen to them trying in their roundabout way to tell the other of their undying love. He wished, for the sake of his bedtime, that Uther and the Church could be more understanding.

They were finally bundled out of his chambers, having failed to take any of the broad hints which Gaius kept telegraphing to them by yawning, first pointedly, and then more pointedly. Merlin walked Arthur out into the hall where they stood for a moment, newly shy. Arthur was some time in deciding how to take his leave. He gripped Merlin’s shoulder in a firm hand. It is not enough to say that Merlin smiled; that is an inadequate verb. He erupted into it; it shone out of his every pore. He thought Arthur was about to say what it was that he could see in Arthur’s eyes. This impression was further supported by the smile which Arthur returned to him, being defenceless against Merlin’s own. He gripped the shoulder more tightly. He said, “You forgot to polish my armour,” and patted Merlin with clumsy tenderness.

Merlin opened his mouth; he closed it. He realised he had indeed forgotten to polish Arthur’s armour.

  
  


In the cavern below the citadel that night, Merlin went in teeming insomnolence to the Great Dragon, and said, “I think Arthur and I love one another.”

The Great Dragon sat back with an immense sorrow in his eyes. “Ah, young warlock; I had hoped you would not know it for some time.” There was a weariness in his voice that you and I cannot imagine, being of mortal years, and mortal worries. For us suffering is finite. “Arthur Pendragon is fated to die. Do not forget that, young Merlin.”

“We’re all fated to die, eventually.”

“He will not die old in his bed. You will lose him when men least expect to lose their young and hearty.”

“I can change it, though, can’t I? You said I was here to protect him--what’s the point of any of this, if I’m only going to fail? It’s not my Destiny to just...let him go.”

It cannot really be said that beasts experience grief in the same way that man experiences grief; who can speak for the other, and presume to elucidate those private joys and ills in callow and foreign tongue. But we have no other word; and perhaps, as he could speak English, and had lovely articulation, we can consider him far closer to the cloth of man than those woodland mutes of simple beastly roamings. He looked down upon his small friend from a great distance. He was struck, the same as you would have been, watching this thin and beaming creature walk with bumbling, bumpkin awe into the citadel of Camelot, by the youth and frailty of him. There was so very little of him, to carry his momentous burden.

“Indeed it isn’t, Merlin,” he said, and, feeling so very exhausted, he flew away, with that terrible music of the chains upon the stones.

  
  


There was a new softness between Arthur and Merlin after that. There were still fantastic rows, and many hurled boots; but occasionally it was now that when Arthur looked at Merlin, he did not fret over whether or not it was that he had let too many things through into his eyes. Sometimes they would stand in dumb ecstasy, smiling at one another across the room, or let with aching longing Merlin’s hand brush Arthur’s for the duration of a wine refill. These would all damn them, if left to roam, and grow bold; but Arthur with the divine hope of youth, and love, told himself there was no harm in the smallest of infinitesimal liberties.

On Merlin’s birthday, he took out a leather pouch, and shoved it into the startled hands of his friend, who was trying to sort one of the cupboards. “Here.” He was hotly embarrassed. There was a splash of red on his neck that had crawled up from beneath his tunic. He cleared his throat in a manly way, so that Merlin would know his antsiness was merely an impatience to be off to the training grounds.

“What’s this?”

“If you opened it, Merlin, perhaps you would know.”

Merlin opened it. He still did not know what it was. Well, strictly speaking, he knew it was a brooch, with a sigil on it that he did not recognise; but he did not know the significance to it. And there was a significance to it, because Arthur had on the pained expression which he wore when Uther complimented him in his underhanded way, by implying here at last was a success, when past endeavours had implied it would end otherwise. It was a naked look; it could be said it was the look of his heart, not the throbbing musculature of the physical thing, but the concept which lies unexplained beneath the corporeal form, and is made much of by the pens of writers, and the brushes of artists. Since we do not have a physical manifestation of the soul, and do not know its uneasy shapes, we should say of it that it was much like the face of Arthur Pendragon; and perhaps this was why his father worried for him.

“I still don’t know what it is,” Merlin said, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s for your birthday.”

“Oh. I didn’t think you’d remembered.”

Arthur lost the haunted look, and wrinkled up his face uncharmingly. “What do you mean? I always remember your birthday.”

“You didn’t last year.”

“We were fighting a griffin! You didn’t remember it either.”

“I’m just saying. I always remember _your_ birthday.”

Arthur sank down into his chair in an irritated sulk. He had been trying to do something symbolic, and Merlin had ruined it, as usual. No sense of metaphor, that one.

“What is it?”

Arthur looked down at his left thumb to see if there was perhaps a bit of ragged nail or a cut or something that he could study; there wasn’t. “It belonged to my mother. That’s her sigil. It’s the only thing I have of her.”

Merlin looked down at it. He wet his lips. “Arthur, I can’t take this.”

“You can take my mutton, and my pastries, and some of my wine, when you think I’m not looking, but when I try to actually _give_ you something, suddenly you want to practise restraint?”

“This isn’t your mutton, Arthur. It’s the only thing you have of your mother.”

“I know,” he said, carefully, with emphasis. “And I want you to have it.” It was not in him to say, freely, that Merlin was of equal importance to the sigil, and it felt somehow poetic for them to belong to one another.

He did not need to say it; Merlin knew it. He was not entirely devoid of metaphor. Slowly, he put it back into the leather pouch, looking down at his toes, so that he could collect himself. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.” He nodded a slow and thoughtful nod, wrinkling up his lips. He seemed to need to do something with his face. “Aren’t you going to finish with the cupboard?”

“Hmm? Oh! Yeah!” He put the pouch round his neck, and tucked it under his tunic. Arthur’s heart made a gleeful noise which the kids these days call a ‘squee’. He responded to it by punching Merlin in the shoulder. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Just keeping you on your toes, Merlin,” he said, patting his shoulder. “Where’s my armour?”

“On the table right under your nose.”

Arthur kicked him in the backside for his impertinence.

Merlin threw some of the linens at him.

Arthur found another, harder, projectile; they chased one another round the chamber some more. It was becoming a ritual. They were only mildly devoted to actually landing any blows, and at the end of it all, after Merlin had been taught another lesson about his impertinence, sat down to breakfast together.

  
  


In the meantime, Gwaine and Gwen were consulting over Morgana’s condition.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She says the nightmares haven’t come back,” Gwen whispered to Gwaine as they peeked in on her shifting restlessly about in her bed.

“She’s afraid of something,” Gwaine whispered back. “I’ve seen that same look in the eyes of men riding to battle.”

“What is she battling?” Gwen asked, wringing her hands.

“Only Morgana knows that, and she isn’t telling me.”

“Or me.” Gwen paused, biting her lip. “Do you think she’s told Arthur? They’ve grown up together. She trusts him, I think more than almost anyone, though she’d never admit it.”

“Arthur’s a fine lad, but Jesus sufferin’ fuck he’s a fecking cabbage sometimes.”

Gwen blinked. “What?” she said. She had mostly got used to his accent; he let it thicken up round the crew, and they were used to interpreting his dialogues, which included a lot of colourful variations of the word ‘fuck’, which he had nobly forgone in the presence of the ladies, till the ladies (Morgana) had told him they were not made of glass, the fucking gombeen.

“An eejit,” Gwaine clarified.

“Oh! Arthur’s great, he’s only--”

“Thicker than me sword arm in the matter of feelings.”

Gwen felt the usual urge to defend a friend, and had a lot of complicated roiling in her stomach, as she could hardly deny that Gwaine had a point, and Arthur was an awful muppet sometimes, though a sweet one. “Right.”

They whispered for a while longer, and then dispersed.

Morgana had latched onto the boy Mordred in the midst of all this, and watched with fond smile as he ran about in service to Arthur, bearing messages and armour. She was by now aware that he was her nephew, and therefore a small piece of Morgause; she was grateful to him in lieu of her sister. She viewed him as an ally, and put all her love into him. She had not absolutely withdrawn it from her friends, but she had begun to see them as transitory; she had passed out of the youthful habit of assigning eternity to the fleeting glimpses of which friendships are made. She knew, as Merlin knew, that there were conditions to their love, and that her magic broke them. Merlin had decided to bear it, and to believe, regardless, in the good heart of man. Morgana had pulled into herself, and wept; she was more sophisticated than Merlin. She knew the good heart of man also had conditions. She loved Arthur as one loves a younger brother (though he was two years her elder), with a slight condescension, and an unbearable tenderness; but she had seen him at the behest of his father murder her people, for no other reason than his father had told him there was a badness in them they could not get out, even if they wished it. In his gawking teens he had led several raids on the druid villages so that he could prove himself; and he had come back with blood on his sword for the praise of King Uther, as a blind dog crawls gropingly toward its master’s hand. She had crawled, in her own sightless prejudice, into the trap of assuming the boy was the same as the man. It is sometimes that we do not see because we do not want to; and it was so with Morgana. Her nightmares were a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy; she had seen in them the death of Arthur Pendragon, and her own vital role, and she could not believe they would do a great harm to one another, unless one of them had fallen to evil. And we never can accept that perhaps it is us that has fallen to evil.

If we have implied that already Morgana had accepted Arthur would die by her hand, we do not mean to. She saw this nightmare as a potential, if the secret of her magic got out, if Uther condemned her, if she were forced into an act of self-defence to which we are all entitled. She was still the victim; she had not even in her fantasies touched so much as a finger to one of his blonde wisps, though she knew sickeningly, surely, that he would not be held to the same restraint. We must say: she did want him to live. She wanted them all to live.

The boy Mordred brought the smile for glancing moments back to her lips, and Gwen saw it, and smiled herself, and was kind to the boy. She did not know of the prophecy. She did not know of the children he had smothered. She knew only there was a black-haired young boy with great blue eyes whose mother had not loved him. She thought that was the tragedy. She thought kindness was the answer.

He liked his aunty Morgana, as near as he could like anything. She reminded him of his mummy, if mummy had ever spake softly, and given him sweets. He might have been saved, if Morgana had not been soon taken from him. Probably it could not be called love; but he looked for her. And when it was that Arthur went on bended knee before him, and spoke to him like a man, he felt what we know as reverence, and the boy Mordred knew as a sort of trembling inside him. It seemed even to Merlin, watching them, that already the great wheels of Fate had begun to turn backwards.

Things were going, if not swimmingly, at least quietly; and though Morgana had become like a wraith in the peripheral of their vision, and they sometimes had meetings about her, and debated how it was she could be brought back to them, in full flesh, there were still the five of them; and there were still sometimes the nights of careless drinking, and rabble-rousing.

  
  


Merlin watched the boy Mordred and Morgana, and saw how slowly they seemed to bring a life into one another. He saw the boy Mordred copying the footwork of Arthur as he dashed off to his next assignment. He saw the whole thing as it was when you are still full of bright hope, when the world is hard, unyielding daylight. What could he have done? Could he have grown small and bitter in himself, and watched with savage eye the creeping on of their inevitable ends? It is fine to sit on your pedestal, and spit with gleeful hindsight on the folly of youth. It is fine if you have grown hard and old, and too much has passed through you.

But there is a mad confidence in love, who is milk-eyed as the old Seer, and sits in dumb ignorance of patient Death. 

  
  


Gwen in the meantime saw the interim between the careless drinking, and rabble-rousing, the slow and thoughtful droop of her lady before the chamber window, and the quiet disappearance into all the places we cannot follow whosoever we love best. She was helpless, and could not be. She did not have the bold daring of Arthur in jangling mail, riding with cinematic hair, and shining arms to his doom. But nevertheless, she would have gone rushing in to save any labouring friend, and probably afterward apologised, as she hadn’t meant to make it seem as though they couldn’t do it themselves, no, of course they were very capable, and certainly heroic.

There was however nothing to go rushing in at. This makes a rescue very frustrating. You have got to have something to tilt at, after all. She went to Gaius. He could do nothing other than to diagnose Morgana with melancholia, which was the closest any physicians of that time came to detecting depression. He was a disciple of Hippocrates, and agreed with his predecessor that there lay at the root of melancholia an imbalance of the humours, rather than divine animosity. Hippocrates was not the style at the time, and most physicians of good and Christian comportment understood that mental illness stemmed from a failure of the patient to be godly enough to reject Satanic possession, and set about drowning or burning the sickness out of them, as was proper. Gaius prescribed borage and motherwort. He did not have any on hand at the moment; Merlin had neglected his usual herb gathering. He probably had a good reason for it that involved keeping Arthur out of Death’s way; but the end result was the same.

“I’ll go. Just show me what to look for.”

Morgana did not know her true errand, only that Gwen was to be of some assistance to Gaius that day, and would need to cover a fair distance; she pressed upon Gwen the loan of her horse, and one of her cloaks. It was meant kindly, and brought a grievous harm. Sometimes life, we are sorry to say, is like that.

It came to be that whilst Gwen was out gathering the borage, she was set upon by bandits, who had seen the Lady Morgana’s cloak, and the Lady Morgana’s horse in fine trimmings, and naturally never suspected it was not the Lady Morgana herself. She kicked valiantly, but a well-placed foot is no match for a well-placed sword. She had a blade held to her throat, and afterwards was more cooperative.

The horse returned alone in time for its supper, and was observed by Merlin trotting through the courtyard, its stirrups banging forlornly. He ran to Arthur. “Morgana’s horse just came back alone. Where did she go?”

Arthur sprang up from the very arduous task of lounging about on his bed. “Nowhere. I just saw her.”

They ran to Morgana.

It did not take long for them to determine that it was Gwen who had not returned, and hardly longer to determine that it was possible some wicked hand had mistaken her for Morgana, and snatched her. They retraced her path to Gaius, who directed them to the depths of Sherwood most likely to harbour the plants she had been in the act of seeking.

Arthur was not long in unearthing the signs of a struggle; kneeling in the moss, he proclaimed with grim certainty of the cloth which he had found: “This is Mercian craftsmanship.”

“They’ve taken her for ransom, thinking she was me,” Morgana, white-faced, interjected.

Gwaine knelt beside Arthur, one hand on the pommel of his sword. He said with even grimmer certainty: “And they’ll kill her as soon as they discover she isn’t, and worthless to them.”

Uther of course would not grant Arthur the men he needed to pursue a mere servant; there were plenty of those. There were not so many of the crown prince of Camelot, or his hard-trained men. It was therefore up to Merlin, and Gwaine, and Arthur, which seems a brilliant assortment, since you are by now well-acquainted with their hearts, and their deeds. However, you must remember they were up against an unknown number of bandits, and riding into enemy territory, and their handiest weapon could not _reveal_ he was their handiest weapon, which certainly handicaps one at least a bit.

“What about me?” Morgana demanded as they plotted over a map.

“What about you?” Arthur asked absently. “Go back to your room. Either we’ll return with Gwen, or we’ll be dead.” He was accustomed to looking at things in these sorts of terms; he succeeded, or he perished. He especially could not imagine the reality of an existence after having failed a friend; he was like an atheist in this regard, and saw in his future the blankness which had existed before he was born, when surely the world must have continued in all its breathing turmoil; but who can ever know for certain, when we have not walked its trembling dews.

“I’m coming with you.”

Arthur pulled the sort of face which he pulled when Merlin tried to leap in front of him during some danger or another. (You might assume he had stopped pulling this face upon learning Merlin was a sorcerer, and that the concept of his skinniness being of any assistance whatsoever in battle might not be such an absurd one after all; but you assume wrong. He had perfected this face, and now turned the incredulous condescension of it upon Morgana, who was not nearly so forgiving as Merlin.) “But you’re a _girl_.”

Morgana pulled one of the knives he kept on his person at all times; she held it to a part of his body which Arthur considered very dear, looking him with unwavering determination in the eyes. “And you’re going to be one, if you try to prevent me from coming. Gwen is my friend.”

Merlin and Gwaine had flinched back; they felt the threat as if it had been made to their own very special places, and crawled about in that great itching of a profound unease within their own skin. Arthur did not bother with being the Noble and Handsome Prince, Who Was Very Stoic In The Face of All Menace; he let his face reflect his abject horror. There was still a part of him, deeply, which thought perhaps there would come some day, when Merlin could touch it; and it seemed a great shame for it to die such a swift and ignoble death, hardly blooded.

“Morgana’s coming with us,” he announced to Gwaine and Merlin, who nodded with the sort of agreement that is only so quickly brokered between men who know they are next.

They did not like to wait, and allow Gwen to pass farther into enemy lands; but they could hardly steal out in broad daylight, and so it was not till the first evening star had come to make merry in the sky that they crept into the stables, Morgana in trousers, with her hair up, and the men wearing all the provisions they could carry (Merlin had two crossbows, and almost shot Arthur accidentally, when he tripped on a cobblestone; Arthur, being somewhat put out, snatched one of them away, and almost shot him on purpose).

It was their last hurrah. They were soon to be parted irrevocably. Surely they must have had some inkling of it, plunging with grave countenances that evening into the woods. The woods were alive in the way that all the earth is jubilantly noisome between the hours of midnight and four, when the humans have settled themselves into their warm retreats, and their murdering arms lie at sweet ease. The moon unrolled before them a silvery runner, and flashed her plumage between the trunks. In the boughs there was a conspiracy between leaf and wind to transform this placid daytime panorama into one of Dante’s circles, which had not yet been penned; but oh, how any human heart quickens to this hellish muttering, when with common throat the restless souls cry their vast and weary wanderings. There must have been, at least, a little premonition in it. But perhaps they still all loved one another a bit too much to foresee their bitter separation. It is monumental, to accept that we must all leave, or be left, in the end.

  
  


It may seem poor timing, but we must now return to Lancelot.

He had left Camelot with heavy but righteous heart. There was a certain satisfaction in having sinned, and then having accepted his penance for the sin. We cannot call him happy; he had had Arthur torn away from him. He had had Gwen torn away from him. But he was--unbitter. We can call him this.

He rode about for a long time, finding in his journeys many a fellow being in distress, whom he would then help; and many a fellow being causing distress, whom he would then stab. It is a simple enough way of life. He was lonely, but satiated enough in his soul. He heard of a poor girl who had boiled in a pot for years, and whose father despaired, because though many a knight had tried to help her out of it, still she sat, red as a lobster, weeping with miserable sorrow for herself.

We do not know whether it was a true miracle he performed, getting her out of the pot; but certainly it seemed that way to the maiden and her grateful father. Doubtless you have heard that she was called Elaine, and gave birth to his bastard son, Galahad; but only the first part is true, that is, the seduction. Elaine assumed (and we cannot fault her for this) that they would be wed, since he was handsome, and beautifully-mannered, and had already seen her naked. She wanted to be grateful to him, and to show her gratefulness; she did not suppose they needed to wait for the actual wedding, to be joined. She came clothed in only her hair to Lancelot’s bed that night, and climbed into it with him.

We have said he was shy; perhaps we have not properly demonstrated it.

He felt the warm touch of her shy hand upon his thigh, and levitated out of the bed. There is really no other word for it; she thought for a moment he had performed another miracle, and ascended to a higher form. He was the colour of Elaine’s skin when she had been in the pot. He stammered, and knocked over a vase, and swept her many bows, and thought of Gwen, and blushed some more. He picked up the pieces of the broken vase, and said how terribly sorry he was, when she burst into tears, and sobbed that she was ugly, and pruney, from the water, and that he musn’t hate her because of that; he was only so nice, and she had lost all her other suitors, on account of the boiling.

He felt so poorly for her, and made so many stuttering assurances of her creamy beauty, that she tried to kiss him, and then he dropped the pieces of the vase he had broken, and said, “My lady, _please_.” He did not want to reject her again, but certainly he could not bed her. Firstly, it seemed an awful violation of the hospitality which her father had granted him; and secondly, he was still thinking of Gwen. They had not made any promises, and he was not beholden to her in any way; but it seemed another violation of the thing which had passed between them, to fall with careless abandon into some other arms. He had frozen all of Camelot into his heart, and kept it like a crucifix, close to his chest. Gwen was the brightest part of this. Our memories become like an old pewter we have not looked after, and grow dull in their abandonment; but Gwen he had kept in living colour, and could see all the vivid detail of her.

Elaine, who was never given much use other than to be pretty, wept when he took his leave; for now she would grow hoary with old age alone, and have no one to love her body’s new and various transformations, and to love his in return, the way something we have admired for so long is always dear, through all its many upheavals. If Lancelot had got upon her the boy Galahad, likely she would have lived to at least her 40s. But he did a good thing, with good intentions, and left true to Gwen, and did not love a poor girl falsely, and give her futile hope. They found her facedown in the moat a week later.

It seems such a waste; but she had sat boiling in the pot for so long she had become used to despair, and numb to it; and then she had seen such a lovely future, with her gentle rescuer, and when it was taken from her, despair, with much sharper teeth, came rushing in upon her, and she was no longer inoculated to it. That is really the problem: when we have let down our guard, and tricked ourselves into an immunity from life. What a rude upset, when it contradicts us; and poor Elaine was only a young girl, with little brains, too gentle to understand the world will never treat us the way we want to be treated.

There was not much money in performing miracles, and while Lancelot had no mercenary desires in his heart, still he had to eat. But he was often welcome in the homes of those he assisted, and he had stray bread from travellers he protected, and was never entirely bereft. He tried to do everything right, and nothing wrong.

He was sleeping under an old oak one night when he was robbed. He had drank unknowing from a magical flask, and its owner had fallen upon him once he was unconscious, and stripped away everything he owned. There were many injustices in the world, and he had never ridden blindly past a one; but when he woke to this one, he put his face in his hands and cried. There had been crudely snatched from him the youthful certainty that evil is explainable, and therefore surmountable. If we can trace the roots of it back to the heart, we can slay it. But this had been an old woman who smiled in gummy fondness upon him, and talked long into the afternoon beneath the oak, and made him feel that there is none of us who strides alone into the world, so long as we keep an open heart about our fellow man. He had seen a child bashed upon some rocks, and a woman slain by her own loving husband; but he had thought these the few and far between missteps of something God had otherwise carried out flawlessly. The old woman hurt him. She had done a trick which many of us have already seen, which was to wear a human mask, with nothing beneath it. He began to rethink all his friendly interactions, and to see them as he began to assume they really were: people using his sword for their own secret gains. His feelings were young, like the rest of him, and easily confused; they swung from one extreme to the other. He had not seen the world in a true light before; he was not seeing it in a true light now. But because the other had been proven wrong, and he was now viewing it through altogether different eyes, he assumed he had got the lay of it this time. While it is still unjust to call him ‘bitter’, when there was still such a lot of faith in his heart, we must be honest, and say he was in anguish. He should not have weathered this alone; but there was no one else.

That was how he came to be in the service of a man called Hengist, who had bought his sword as an amusement to pit against other men in his arena. This, Lancelot thought in despair, at least was an honest transaction. And it was the man Hengist who led the bandits Gwen had fallen afoul of, and that was how the two were reunited, when they both most needed it.

Lancelot had fought a mercenary to his knees, and spared him, which was not entirely pleasing to Hengist, who had him murdered after all, whilst Lancelot watched. “There’s one man standing,” Hengist reminded him. “Next time it won’t be you, if you don’t want to play properly.”

It was during a feast at which the ‘Lady Morgana’ was being dubiously honoured that Lancelot and Gwen suddenly discovered they were both somehow in the fortress at the same time, and following Lancelot’s triumph in another match, he was brought forth to meet Hengist’s esteemed guest, to whom he bowed with heart pounding. He was smart enough to greet her as she had been presented to him, by the name of her lady, and they made eyes at one another as he shakingly kissed her hand.

He watched from an alcove as she was returned to the dungeons to await a ransom which would never come, and crept up to her cell when the guards had vanished round the corner. “Guinevere!”

She groped in the poor light to the door, and seeing by the bit of moon which had contrived its way into the cell, put her hands through the bars, to touch his face. He had forgotten to be shy, as often happens in a moment of rapture; he seized her hands, and kissed them, not with courtly dispassion; he kissed both her palms, and pressed them to him. “I hadn’t thought I would ever see you again.”

“Nor I you,” she whispered. “What are you doing here, Lancelot? Are you one of Hengist’s men?”

“No; I’m a sword, that’s all. The world isn’t as I thought it was, Guinevere. There are few uses for men like me.”

“Lancelot,” she said in a breaking voice. She knew that was not true. The world is not gentle; but neither is it so mean. She felt her dwindling time pressing in on her, and forgot, as Lancelot had only a moment before, her own bashfulness, and stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. “You are a good man; and you are wrong.”

“Why does Hengist think you are the Lady Morgana?”

“I was kidnapped by his men; they think I’m the Lady Morgana, and that they can demand a ransom from Uther for his ward. It’s been three days; Hengist must have his suspicions by now that it won’t be paid. And then he’ll kill me.”

“I would never allow that to happen.” Lancelot held her hands to him. He was stricken with his feelings; the gentle link which they had forged in Camelot was now on fire; the crisis had quickened it. That hopeful bloom of potential, feeling itself threatened, had raged into what the following months and years would have made it, if they had been allowed the time to nurse it slowly along, smiling from behind their hands. “I give you my word, Guinevere: I’ll get you out of here. Do not despair.”

She had not planned it; only he was tall, and earnest, and she could see the good gentle soul in his eyes. She pressed up against the bars, as close as she could; and kissed him with the sweet sharpness of first and last kisses. Following the Elaine business it is not necessary to specify that Lancelot did not know how to kiss; but certainly he could stand there, and receive it, and tremble.

“I will come back for you, Guinevere,” he said breathlessly when she had pulled away, and being somewhat emboldened by her own kiss, he pressed his mouth this time to her wrist, where the pulse beat.

She sat down to wait. She did not care to be a damsel in distress, but it is hard to be anything else, when you have been locked in a dungeon. Even Arthur would have found it necessary to wait for his love to break him out, and then snippily protested that he had just been about to make a daring escape with nothing but his wits and strength of manly arm. She was not ashamed; only afraid. She had now been friends with Arthur long enough to know what great big stupids men could be when they were in a heroic mood.

  
  


Whilst Gwen and Lancelot were having a Moment, Arthur, Merlin, Morgana, and Gwaine had reached the fortress, and were now sequestered in the forest beyond it, determining how to assault it.

“We’ll have to scale the walls,” Arthur said.

“Right, so they can dump boiling oil on our heads. That’s a terrible plan, Arthur. I wish Gwen were here. She’d have a much better idea.”

“Well, Merlin, why don’t you just go and knock them up? I’m sure they’d be more than happy to invite you inside.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a _fortress_ , so you really think they haven’t planned for a scenario where someone tries an alternative route to the front door? How far would someone get, climbing up the citadel in Camelot?”

“I’ve done it numerous times. _You’ve_ done it numerous times. That’s how we get out of my room, more often than not.”

“You might want to have a word with Uther about that. That _has_ to be a significant--”

“A distraction,” Morgana interrupted before they could carry on in their old married couple way for any longer. They were liable to get onto a tangent, and then they’d all be here ages, waiting for them to remember what they’d originally been on about. “We’ll need a distraction.”

“Sounds like a Gwaine sort of job, doesn’t it?” Gwaine said, clicking softly to his horse.

“No, wait,” Merlin called out, spurring his horse to intercept Gwaine before he could breach the edge of the woods. “I’ll do it.” He did not have a plan; it was easier to be spontaneous with magic. You could be (at least marginally) more confident that you were not going to die, and that makes navigating by the seat of one’s trousers an infinitely more attractive endeavour.

Arthur reached out to grab his wrist, and pulled Merlin toward him. “You wouldn’t be about to do something fantastically stupid, would you?”

Merlin tried to guess what an innocent expression looked like, and put it on his face. “Me? Of course not, Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Right.” He squeezed Merlin’s wrist, somewhat bruisingly. “Try not to die, would you? Somehow it’ll be all my fault, and Morgana still has my knife.” A haunted look came to his face.

Merlin leaned in toward him, so that neither Gwaine nor Morgana could hear. “You can say you’d miss me, if I let a bandit stab me.”

Arthur pushed him away, spreading his fingers so that they covered nearly the entirety of Merlin’s face. “I wouldn’t hate the quiet.”

“You would,” Merlin said, and, grinning, dismounted his horse.

  
  


Hengist was beginning to despair of ever receiving his money, and naturally that made him a bit pricklish; doubtless you’d be similarly put out, so perhaps it isn’t really fair to judge him by the following scene.

He strode into Gwen’s cell while the scene in the forest was happening simultaneously, and said to her, “Doesn’t it seem odd, that Uther would leave his beloved ward to a terrible, prolonged death?”

“I don’t know why he hasn’t paid. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do about it.” She had not meant to say that; but the cell was very cramped, and odorous, and it is hard to not be a bit snappish with someone who has elected to chop you into pieces for no good reason other than that he is malicious, and greedy, and in dire need of better dental hygiene.

“You have till daybreak, my lady. If I have heard nothing from Camelot, than it shall be your last sunrise.”

  
  


Merlin returned to interrupt Arthur’s pacing twenty minutes later, breathing hard. “We can scale the wall now.”

“What? You just made a lot of noise about what a terrible idea it was! And now that it’s yours, suddenly it’s perfectly viable?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, grabbing him by the sleeve. He did not mention that it _had_ been a terrible idea, till he had spotted the guards patrolling the battlements, and yanked them to their unfortunate demises with a few timely bursts of magic.

They scaled the wall; Merlin puffed and complained; Morgana had some difficulties, since being a lady does not require a lot of upper body strength, but Arthur would be unbearably smug if he made it to the top first, and that was a powerful motivator.

Gwaine had got ahead of Arthur, who had stopped to berate Merlin for being a weakling, and used his head as a foothold. “Thanks, lad,” he said, and tumbled first into the window of what it so happened was a small room where several guards had gathered, waiting for shift change. There were three of them, and of course only one of him, but as he was a brawler, and made good use of the table from which they jumped up, it was not nearly as unfair as it might have seemed.

The guards were indisposed by the time Arthur, and then Morgana, and finally Merlin climbed in after him. They were handily stripped, and everyone save Arthur dressed in their uniforms, which is such an old trope because it is a successful one. Arthur had to go some ways down the hall before he came across another man, and hitting him in the face with the handle of his sword, dragged him back to the pile they had made, swiftly exchanging his mail for the man’s tunic and hauberk.

Morgana ordered them to split up, and pointing Merlin and Arthur down the left path of the hallway, she pulled Gwaine to the right; and into the bowels of the fortress they spread.

  
  


The moon was beginning to waver. There was at the edge of the window to Gwen’s cell that thin fringe of milky beginning, when blackest night has changed into only black night. She watched the changing light on the straw in which she was lying, the rippling of its transmutation, and she felt in her bones that Lancelot had been killed. This was not premonition; she was simply frightened for someone who was dear to her. She chewed at her nails.

She could feel a vague promise of sunlight somewhere in distant hours; the temperature in the dank cell had shifted slightly. The window was pouring in early morning, and heaping it with great cheer onto the straw. She curled into herself, and vowed to look small, and quivering, which was not at all difficult. When they came for her life, she was not going to be taken compliant in their dirty hands. She was not going to live; she accepted that. But she did not have to be quiet about it. She was young; she knew life was a thing for which to fight, even when fighting is futile.

But then there was a soft whispering of stealthy footsteps down the hall, and she rolled with pounding heart toward the door, and saw Lancelot’s face spring out of the shadows, miraculous; she whispered with great feeling, “Lancelot!” and scrambled toward the door.

He had got hold of the keys, and unlocked her cell. They fell against one another; it was a good job Lancelot was too relieved to be bashful, otherwise it might have ruined their reunion. Gwen kissed his chin; she was too short to reach anything else, and he was a bit too daft to recognise that it was a grand romantic moment, and he should have bent down to take her in knightly fashion. He was too busy hugging her.

“Quickly!” he said. “Hengist and his men will be here any moment.” He took her by the hand, and ran with her toward a tunnel he had earlier discovered, which conveniently, if they did not become hopelessly lost in it, would lead them to escape. But he had not exaggerated in saying that Hengist and his men would be there any moment, for just as they had reached the mouth of the tunnel, a great clamour broke out behind them. The clamour was Hengist, losing his tits over the sudden disappearance of his prisoner, who had not got him any money, and now looked to have denied him his murderous consolation.

Lancelot drew his sword. “Run! I will hold them off as long as possible.”

“Lance,” she said, for the first time. “No. You’ll die.”

“As all men do eventually, Guinevere. And I can’t think of any better reason to do it.” They ought to have been in a tough spot more often; probably he could have rattled off reams of beautifully-structured poetry, whereas in quieter moments sometimes it took him nearly an hour to work himself up to telling her she was pretty, and that wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say, as ‘pretty’ was such a pale depthless word, for what he was trying to take out of his heart.

She clung to his arm. “I can’t leave you.”

“You must. I will die either way, and if you do not leave, I will have died in vain.”

There is no arguing with this sort of declaration. It would seem tactless. She held onto his arm for a moment longer; she could not deny that it would be unfair of her, to be killed without ceremony when he was making such a heroic stand for her life. But she had already felt the loss of him; she was in her own mind moving already up the tunnel, and fleeing into a part of the world into which he would never follow. It is hardly a surprise that she found that in moving her legs they stumbled, and in turning her body it inclined naturally toward his own. Death, a native to this land for all its innumerable ages, always seems to us a foreign coming; and we balk at it, fumbling in our address of it.

“Go!” Lancelot yelled, and shoved her.

Hengist’s men were at full roar. She could see them pelting down the hall toward Lancelot, glimmering with countless weapons.

She turned. She fled. The tunnel round her was hazy with tears; she stumbled along it, feeling that something had gone out of her. She heard the magnificent crash of all the screaming horde dashing itself against him, and somehow, somehow--being stymied.

Lancelot fought with ungodly fury; it was as if a demon had got into him. He was the lone barricade between this mob, and his Guinevere; and he had to hold. Sword fighting in those days was not the balletic pleasantries of later decades, when fencing had died out as a means to live, and segued into a fad practised by rich men, who liked the way they looked in the sunlight, flashing about with their rapiers. He slashed men in two; when he had engaged his sword in the belly of one, he dragged another in close, to break with bleeding fist the man’s shouting mouth. He splashed about myriad guts; and the hall filled with the scent of hot excrement, and hotter blood. They had to come at him by threes; the mouth of the tunnel was not wide enough for more. This enabled him to hold them off, wave by wave, for a time which ought to have been recorded by some wandering bard, and unfortunately never was. We can say that certainly it belongs in metred rhyme, with a silver tongue behind it.

It was a leg wound, and inevitability, that brought him down finally. He could have fought twenty men, and likely did. There were thirty.

Gwen, we are sorry to say, ran into her own troubles; she had taken the branching of the tunnel to the right, and ran straight into reinforcements. They caught her by the arms, and bore her to the floor, where one of them put his foot on her back, and lashed her hands at a painful angle behind her back. Her face was horrid to see; she was to die, having wasted his own death.

Lancelot was brought alive to the banquet hall, and there they were reunited. Hengist had them put on their knees, so they would understand the full despair of their powerlessness. It is easier to be brave, standing. Anything might happen then.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lancelot,” Gwen sobbed.

“Do not be,” he whispered, crooking out his elbow so that he could touch her. “I can die happy, Guinevere, knowing you. It has been my honour.”

It may seem rude, but Gwen could not die happy, even knowing him; there wasn’t much satisfaction in knowing anyone at the hour of her death. Probably she would have looked sourly even upon a puppy, and thought how stupid it was. Perhaps Lancelot didn’t get much satisfaction out of it either, and had only said it because it sounded nice; but knowing Lancelot, it is likely he had bared his heart truly. Some people are that ridiculous.

She did feel somewhat cheered, looking at him. Hengist was making a speech, and they had time to look into one another’s eyes. ‘Cheered’ is probably not the best word; but anyway she was soothed, and thought, at least, that they should be going somewhere together. It took some of the coldness out of it, to know she would not have to find her way alone into what realms wait afterward, and are uncharted.

Hengist had finished his speech. She was not sure what it had been about; therefore we cannot recreate it here. Any bland villain speech will do. He did not have any moustachios to speak of, but you may picture them if it helps.

Lancelot was going to be killed first; Hengist was of the opinion that Gwen should have to watch, for making him think he was going to be rich. He had decided to start by chopping off Lancelot’s sword hand, so it would all last a bit longer, and Gwen could work herself into hysterics, and be properly shuddering with terror by the time he got to her. It was a great disappointment when his victims were too startled to gibber or anything nice like that.

He raised an axe over Lancelot’s right hand. The bolt from a crossbow leapt neatly through Hengist's own hand; he howled and flung the axe, thankfully not in the direction of Lancelot or Gwen (there was a character with no speaking role who would dispute our usage of ‘thankfully’, however). Another bolt found his throat, when he turned to confront the direction from which the first had sped.

One of the bandits in the gathered crowd screamed, “On me!” and flung back his hauberk. “Arthur!” Gwen breathed, and now from out of the crowd she watched the blonde head emerge, and clustering round it three bandits with their swords drawn. Beside her, Lancelot rose free of his ropes, which she attributed to some cleverness or strength of his hands, and which he attributed to Merlin’s magic.

Arthur ran a man through, and neatly disengaging his sword, and catching up the one from the man’s slackening fingers, he tossed it to Lancelot, who caught it almost absently. He freed Gwen; (Merlin had meant to finish the both of them, but after doing away with Lancelot’s bonds, had found that someone was making a decent attempt at stabbing him in the face) and putting her behind him, set upon Hengist’s second-in-command, newly promoted.

“Gwen!” Morgana yelled, and tossed Gwen her own weapon, since boys could be thick about that sort of thing. Gwen knew more about the theory of swordsmanship than the actual practice of it, but certainly she knew which was the sharp end, and where to put it.  

Arthur bashed his way through the crowd, some of which had fled upon recognising him. There was a general confusion, as in battle, and he used it to shove Merlin behind him. In the heat of battle, he often forgot Merlin was a sorcerer, and not entirely useless. Gwaine, who of course did not know about the magic, and had seen Merlin with a sword, brought up the rear, so that he was quite comfortably sandwiched between them, and could at his leisure use his magic to muff things up for the other side. Morgana handled herself neatly, and did not need a lot of overprotective men bollixing her rhythm.

When Lancelot favoured his wound, and a man tried to take advantage of his stumble, Gwen stabbed him in the side. It was not a clean blow, but generally it is not necessary to make a beautiful job of it. A sword is rather forgiving like that, so long as you are the one holding it. They turned their backs instinctively to one another, and pressed them together. Lancelot knew he would marry her. It was not a convenient thought to have in the midst of a battle, but he was good at compartmentalising.

Arthur drove his sword underneath the chin of a man who had made an ill-advised attempt at gutting Merlin. It popped out the top of his head. He punched in the man's face, to get him off it.

“Arthur!” Merlin called out, and through some miraculous intervention by one deity or another, managed to block a swing that might have taken off Arthur’s head. Another crashing of the enemy sword against his guard lowered it; but Arthur was there, immediately, and thrusting his shoulder into the man, cut him with a vicious swipe at his stomach. The whole lot of him was unloaded onto the floor.

We shall not detail the entirety of the fight; the rest was much the same. Lancelot thought Gwen was astounding; Arthur was incensed that people kept trying to murder Merlin, right in front of him. Gwaine was surprisingly good-natured about the whole thing, and wielded his sword impersonally. Morgana took advantage of a technique few men have the nerve to try: she kicked any bollocks that were in front of her, and then stabbed their owner.

They made it into the woods where the horses awaited them, only a little battered. Arthur’s cheek had been cut shallowly; he forgot it because Merlin had got his bicep sliced open, and was hissing at it (he would be all right, dear reader; but it did not seem that way to Arthur for a moment, who saw the blood first, and the superficiality of it afterward). Lancelot had the leg wound, which Merlin dressed, and Morgana some torn knuckles. Gwaine was generally bloodied, and missing a very tiny piece of his ear, but as it had a good story behind it, he didn’t mind it; and maidens generally loved that sort of thing anyway.

Gwen and Morgana embraced; in this moment, Morgana could not remember that she had begun to distance herself from the woman in her arms. She cried into her hair. So you see that love does not just vanish; but sometimes it has pressures which it cannot eternally withstand.

They rode back in high spirits. Merlin had given his horse to Lancelot and Gwen, and rode double with Arthur. He helped Gwaine (poorly) with a drinking song they spontaneously broke into. He fell asleep on Arthur’s back, and drooled over his shoulder.

When they had reached the border, Arthur shook Merlin awake, and dismounted. Lancelot had struggled down from Merlin’s mount, and leant heavily on it now, pale beneath the layer of sweat on his brow. Arthur took Gwen aside, his hands on her shoulders. “There’s a tavern called The King’s Head some distance from here, to the east. Take Lancelot to it. It’s on the perimeter of Camelot; it’s far enough that no one will bother you. The woman who owns it is called Mary. Tell her Prince Arthur sent you, and that your room and board will be generously compensated, in exchange for her discretion. For as long as you like.”

Gwen looked toward Lancelot, still leaning on the horse, and then she looked up at Arthur, her eyes swimming about in the warm tears that came to them. “He’ll need someone to look after that wound, won’t he?” Arthur asked, smiling down at her. He was suddenly conscious that he had done a kind thing, and his hands turned awkward on her shoulders. He patted her like a big oaf.

“You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?” Merlin asked under his breath, having sidled up to Arthur whilst Gwen said her farewells to Morgana and Gwaine.

“Shut up, Merlin.” He pulled his sword from the scabbard on the saddle. “Lancelot. Kneel.”

Gwen saw what he was doing before it could fully register for the overcome Lancelot. She helped him down.

“We’ll do it properly, later. But for now: Lancelot du Lac, you have been deemed fit for this high estate by your peers, and have indicated your willingness to accept this honour from Our hands. Do you now swear by all you hold sacred, true, and holy that you will defend the Crown and Kingdom of Camelot?”

“I will,” Lancelot said, numbly.

“That you will honour, defend, and protect all ladies, and those weaker than yourself?”

“I will,” Lancelot said, beginning to tremble.

“That you will be courteous and honor your peers?”

“I will,” he said, and looked forward with set shoulders, a quivering in his lips.

“That you will conduct yourself in all matters as befits a Peer, drawing your sword only for just cause? That you will enshrine in your heart the noble ideals of Chivalry to the benefit of your own good name and the greater glory of Camelot?”

He would.

Arthur took his sword in both hands. “Then having sworn these solemn oaths, know now that I, Prince Arthur of Camelot, do dub you with my sword, and by all that you hold sacred, true, and holy.” And he dubbed him, tapping the sword gently, thrice. “Arise, Sir Lancelot.” He gave him his hand. Gwen took one of his elbows, and together they got his legs underneath him. Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. “You are a fine man, Lancelot, and one beside whom I will always be honoured to fight. When I am king, you may return to Camelot, and always be welcome.”

And it was that Lancelot cried, and kissed his hand, and held it to his wet eyes, and there was no shame in it, even for Arthur, who felt rather teary himself.

  
  


When Lancelot came to the fortress of Hengist, he considered the world universally bad, because he had gone out into it with the thought that it was universally good, and found this not to be the case. That is youth. It has not yet allowed for gradation.

Gwen had shown him otherwise. Arthur had shown him otherwise. He arose already as Sir Lancelot a little wiser, and certainly more hopeful. The two do not have to be enemies.

Life was as it had been, except for the absence of Gwen, whose void was filled by a few circulating chambermaids, and Merlin, who brought Morgana her breakfast, and chattered at her while she ate it. Gwaine made his usual sojourns to Merlin’s bedroom when he had been thrown out of the tavern, and there continued his drinking. He often stayed late into the night, to help with various polishing tasks, and then it was that they shared the bed, which Arthur did not know about. There was nothing unseemly in it; but it would have been cruel for him to know of the blase tangle in which they slept with easy hearts, Gwaine’s arm flung over Merlin’s chest, and Merlin’s nose in his hair.

Lancelot and Gwen settled into their respective roles of nursemaid and invalid. The wound was not life-threatening; but it had festered a bit, and needed to be coddled. Lancelot did not mind; he had begun to clumsily court Gwen. So clumsily, in fact, that at first she did not know that was what he was doing. The absence of any dire straits had thickened both their tongues a little, so in the beginning their evening chats were a little stilted, as Lancelot had forgotten how to talk, and Gwen had forgotten how to do it competently. But they soon began to get the lay of one another, as they had when he had first come to Camelot. Gwen called him “ _Sir_ Lancelot” with gentle teasing, to watch him flame up with pleasure; and he, in the course of strengthening his leg by stumping round the fields nearby, brought her flowers he found along his commute, and nearly died in giving them to her, he was so bashful that she should like them. In the evenings, Gwen embroidered, and clucked over his wound; they played the games which Merlin brought to them during regular visits. Knucklebones was an especial favourite; Lancelot was brilliant at it.

When he had sufficiently recovered, they began to help in the tavern. Lancelot roughed up any rabble-rousers; Gwen did the washing up. When the number of rabble-rousers outmatched the number of Lancelots, she came out with a cast iron pot, and used it to great effect in his defence. It was all very domestic, and there was even talk of babies--not, of course, their own, you musn’t think that, neither of them had meant it that way, they were only having a chat about the _theoretics_ of babies, and how many, theoretically, both would like to have, if God and the lack of prophylactics should so bless them. (This was probably some ways off, you must understand, as Lancelot had not even worked up the nerve to kiss her again, though he was desperate to do it. He hovered round in the mornings when Mary sent him to the market, thinking he could kiss her and then rush off, and then he did nothing but rush off, whilst Gwen in drooping disappointment went back to cleaning the tables. “Oh, you silly eejit!” she cried in despair one morning--she had spent too much time in the company of Gwaine--and grabbed him by the front of his tunic. They kissed with the innocence of children, and then stood blushing at one another. Lancelot forgot he had to go to market, and was scolded.)

In Camelot, Arthur and Merlin were not kissing with the innocence of children, or even kissing at all, to the disappointment of both. They did, however, sit round Arthur’s chambers in the evenings like an old married couple, arguing with the fondness of couples who like to be ornery with one another, but not so that anyone is hurt permanently. Sometimes they laid on the floor in front of the fire, because they had found somehow it was easier to say things whilst lying on the floor, with one’s feet up on a chair. “Do you think,” Arthur asked him one night, “that a parent is entitled to forgiveness from their child?”

“I don’t think forgiveness should ever be an obligation.” Merlin got up on his elbow. “Arthur. You’re entitled to be angry with anyone who hurts you, no matter who they are.”

“You know, Merlin, sometimes it almost seems to me that you’re wise.”

“Really?” Merlin asked, and the smile shone out of him again from every pore. “How much ale have you had?”

“Too much, obviously,” Arthur said, and kicked at him.

In a small village far to the east, Lancelot and Gwen were conducting the same intimate conversations about honour, and religion, and all the human edicts of compassion and cruelty. But there was the quiet joy of like hearts in these conversations, because they knew it could all go somewhere; whereas Arthur had to look at Merlin in the firelight, and know it could all only end here.

  
  


It was at this point Morgause struck her finishing blow. Morgana knew of the two secrets; and now she was at last privy to the third. She was not the ward of Uther Pendragon: she was his daughter.

Morgause had miscalculated. She thought this revelation would sow in Morgana a coldness toward Uther. She thought it would be a steely sort of anger, which she could sharpen, and then stick wherever she liked. Morgause did not have many warm emotions herself, and could not conceive of them in others.

But Morgana went with wild breast to the throne room, where Uther was looking over a vast sheaf of accounts. She could not quite believe it; it was not that she distrusted Morgause: she simply could not make herself imagine that all these fatherless years, there existed one after all--and oh how she had smarted at his kindness in taking in a friend’s child, through all Uther's despicable acts. Her relationship with Uther had never lain easy in her; it was like the dissent in Arthur, that on the one hand begged of him, oh, loathe not the flesh of your flesh, though he be untrue, and on the other saw in him the actions which a good man should have taken, and Uther did not. It is a mighty thing to admit we hate a parent; and neither of them could do this. And we must not call it false: ‘hate’ is too absolute a word, of humble and unnuanced origins.

She had bucked against his rule, and thought him weak, as she thought most men weak; but we cannot say there was never love in her. We could never say that of Morgana Pendragon; that must be remembered.

“Uther,” she said, and he looked up with a smile for his pretty young ward, who tested him, but never beyond the boundaries of his affection. “Or should I say...father?” The smile died from his face. They looked at one another for a moment, she in a red-eyed fury, with thunderous indignity in her heart, he with cold stupefaction.

She had done it to test him. She had hoped he would say something to show to her that Morgause was mistaken; and now by the expression on his face, he had made her to realise that in fact Morgause spoke truly.

If he had not tried to lie, if he had taken her hand, and said to her what he thought: he was afraid, he had not acted honourably, he had betrayed, and betrayed, in the conception of her. She could have been brought round. She could have raged, and hated, and then let it cool by gradual degrees into forgiveness.

“Morgana, where on earth did you hear something so ridiculous? Do not profane your poor father’s right to you.”

You must remember: she had sat in a cold terror for so long now. She had lived in the fleshless half-being of her own fear, and let it mould her into something sallow and dreamless. She was like the maidens in towers who wait about in endless unfeeling for their release, and now something had broken through this numb aureole. She was no longer wrapt in wool. That is a hard puncturing, and lets in everything.

She screamed, “You _liar_!” It rose up from a deep grief, and there sounded a death knell in it. There was a portent, as on the misty morns of Irish moors, when the banshee plies her guttural trade.

She did not mean what happened next. She had practised some small charms and spells with Morgause, but she was not yet in control of her powers. When the rage burst in her breast, it was not the only thing that burst. The tapestries of the throne room went up in a sudden blaze. They stared at one another with heaving shoulders through the conflagration.

“ _You_ ,” Uther whispered.

And whilst his throne room burnt, he stood with all this writhing fury in the background, as if it were secondary, and the flames rose up behind him, in a great unfurling, and were nothing. “ _Guards_!”

  
  


We cannot recognise what Uther did to his children as love. But in his heart he had his own version of it, and nursed it, and thought himself benevolent in all he did for them. He could not bring himself to execute Morgana. He did not have it in him. You remember there is no villain of unlimited evil. Even a bastard can stop to admire a flower, or pet a dog. For the crime of sorcery, he exiled the Lady Morgana, never to return to home and hearth for all her days.

She was escorted to the border of Camelot shackled, hooded, so that she could not in her blindness try anything maleficent. At swordpoint, she had the shackles removed; at swordpoint, the hood was lifted. Her horse was given a great blow with the flat of this same sword, and went in a frothing panic over the boundary, and into the wild woods.

And Morgana, weeping the tears of a heart which has had something irreparable done to it, rode out alone, forevermore, in shame.

  
  


It was at the same time Lancelot took a coin from his pocket, and breaking it (this was the manner of betrothal for the peasantry, who could not afford rings), presented half to Gwen, in a great blundering rush about the honour she would do him, in becoming his wife. He dropped the coin in saying it, and bumped into a table trying to find it, and trod on her foot, and sweated a great deal.

And Gwen, weeping the tears of a heart which has had something magnificent done to it, threw herself heedless of the missing half, and his sweaty underarms, into Lancelot’s startled embrace.

We must give them this moment, though it be a cruel juxtaposition to the poor Lady Morgana.

  
  


Arthur and Merlin returned from patrol to a great frenzy. They heard the ominous rumours of the lower town, and ran for Uther’s chambers at a dead sprint. Arthur came with windblown hair, and heavy throat, into the ruins of the throne room. “What’s happened?”

“Send your manservant away,” said Uther, sitting with a great stillness at the table which Morgana’s sorcery had spared.

“What’s happened, father?” Arthur demanded, ignoring the order. He was still in his mail. There was a cloak of Camelot red on his shoulders. He was an emblem of his lands, and had never had cause to be ashamed of it; and in a moment, he would know differently, and wonder sickly, for what he had fought all his earnest young years. It was better that the stillness was not yet gone from Uther. It was better that he should not yet know.

“Morgana,” Uther said at last, slowly, with the feebleness of an old man, “is a sorceress.”

“What? No.”

“I have seen it with my own eyes, Arthur. I have...I have sent her away. She will never return to Camelot, for as long as she lives. I have done her a kindness, because of her dearness to me, and to you. But she is never again welcome in Camelot.”

“A _kindness?_  Father, this is a mistake. I can’t--”

“You,” Uther roared, standing with his hands pressed to the table, so that it could take his weight, and keep his kingly dignity, “will honour my judgement. If you attempt to follow the Lady Morgana, you will be charged with treason, and you will share her fate. And your manservant will be executed for treason.” He did not know that Arthur had conceived an unnatural affection for the boy; but he knew his son was foolishly weak-hearted in the matter of servants, and especially in the matter of this servant.

Arthur lost all the colour in his face. He felt brittle. He thought, for a moment, he should have to lean on something. He had seen his father commit many an injustice, and it had made him small in himself, and desperate to do something better.

But he had thought, as we usually do, that his father’s prejudice was impersonal; it sought its unknown victims because it is easier to practise an atrocity upon a stranger. We do not know a stranger’s heart, and cannot judge it aright. This does not excuse a terrible action; but humanity has a great insouciance for the faceless masses, and punishes them for their blankness.

Arthur realised his father’s hatred had consumed him. There was nothing else in him. Or, at least, there was nothing stronger in him. Arthur did not expect that Uther’s love for him should sway him on anything; he was not sure, truthfully, if his father loved him, or if he was simply dutiful about him. But Morgana had played sweetly on all his softer inclinations, and knew how to bring him back from his kingship, where he was a figurehead, and not a man. A king must be both. Uther was not. A land cannot be ruled by something which plays at being a man, forgetting in its mimicry the great necessity of compassion.

“Father,” Arthur said, and Merlin thought how broken he sounded. He saw the callused hand flit, trembling, to the pommel of his sword.

“Arthur,” he said quietly, and brought him back.

  
  


It was three days before they could get safely away; Gwaine rode with them. They made straight for The King’s Head, and got out the whole story to Gwen and Lancelot. Gwen was held by Gwaine as she cried, as he gave the best hugs, and in a voice like a lullaby could say to the stormiest of weeping, “Sure you’ll come through it. Shh, shh, now. Put your head on me shoulder, and stay as long as you like.”

“I have a letter for her,” Arthur said.

“I’ll take it,” Gwaine volunteered immediately, patting Gwen’s back, and rocking her as he had rocked the infant Merlin, softly put the big hand on her shining hair.

“Do you think your absence wouldn’t be noted immediately in Camelot?” Arthur asked, and Gwaine, who had not supposed it would be noted at all, felt suddenly inside of him a bit like poor Gwen’s unrestrained sobbing. He had not yet been trained to recognise himself as anyone’s friend.

“I’ll go,” Lancelot said. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway. Uther will not suspect me of treason.”

“She’s been gone three days already.”

“I’ll find her. This I promise you, Arthur,” Lancelot said, in the earnest way he had, and sank to take his liege’s hand in his.

He set out immediately, on a horse that Mary loaned him. He leant down from it to kiss Gwen properly, without any blushing. Perhaps he knew he was saying good-bye; there might have been in his heart some faint suspicion of it, when he looked down upon her dear and shining face. He had put his half of the coin on a leather thong, and kept it round his neck. She touched it with a tremulous hand.

They would meet once more, under the darkest circumstances. I would like to bear better tidings, and say long did they live, in vast happiness.

But already you know, I suppose.

  
  


Lancelot was too polite to have cracked the seal on the letter which Arthur had handed off to him; it was simply not meant for his eyes. He was not tempted by it. It lay inside his tunic and crackled in his shiftings.

We must recreate at least a little of it for you, then. It is a private thing, and shall not be quoted wholesale. It is enough that you understand he had sat over it for a long time, and then, as if he had used his heart for his inkwell, poured out all his immeasurable regrets. He did not spare his father. He did not spare himself. He did not ask her forgiveness; he did not expect her forgiveness. It was only vital that she know that as the reign of Uther Pendragon could not be eternal, neither could her exile. He did not know she would never read it. He did not know: they would never again meet as friends. That is also youth, to see the hope in the hopeless.

Merlin was not so polite as Lancelot. He had been quiet all through the ride down to The King’s Head, and all through Lancelot’s farewells. He had been quiet when they mounted up, leaving Gwaine to follow later, once he had soothed Gwen into coming back with him. He said now, “What’s in the letter?”

Arthur was some time in responding. He swayed silently along to the movements of his horse. He looked at the sky, and the trees girdled with flame-tipped wreath of brassy autumn. There was a quiet chuckling of creatures in the underbrush, and lo did the earth breathe her mossy incense, and all the world receive its sweet redolence.

Which is to say that Arthur was stalling. At last he replied, “A full pardon, for when I am king.”

“Because you don’t believe she’s a sorceress?” Merlin asked with a new huskiness in his voice.

“No. Because she’s still Morgana, either way. And I have been remiss in my earlier opinions of magic users. Mere existence should never be a criminal act.”

Merlin stared down at his horse’s mane. There were silent tears on his cheeks. He tried to say Arthur’s name. He failed. It was as if something for him to surmount. He got out finally, “Arthur--” and could go no farther. His voice had cracked; he could not put it back in order.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “I know. You’re not as good at keeping secrets as you think.” He looked over at him. He saw the face in full spasm, and the tears hot on it.

He was utter rubbish at this sort of thing, as we have already said.

But he put out his hand to clutch Merlin’s shoulder. He didn’t want him to be alone. Perhaps we cannot really share a grief; but we can support it.

Merlin put up his own hand to cover Arthur’s. He squeezed the fingers as Arthur had done in watching the indomitable Whiskers reluctantly leave him.

How long they rode like this is not for us to say. It was some time longer than was proper. Only know: together they made it back to Camelot, in the soft-alighting dusk of autumn.

Oh, let it be gentle, this soft ending; for ye shall know storms to come.  

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue spoken by Arthur during his knighting of Lancelot I took from this site: http://gimlet.outlandsheralds.org/ceremonies/knight.php. I was trying to find some guide to what would have been said during an actual knighting, and this was the closest I could get. I made some changes, but most of it is taken from the general form on this site. Also, beware: the next part is going to take a much darker turn. I know the foreshadowing has made that pretty obvious, but I want to be clear about that.


	5. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the weird spaces between any punctuation and italicized text. In the actual document manager, it all displays fine, with no extra space, and in the preview for some reason, the space is there. I'm not sure how to fix that. 
> 
> Just a bit more to go now (which means probably another 50,000 words, because if you haven't caught on by now, I tend to be a bit long-winded). Thank you for reading.

Lancelot did not return.

Gwen waited for him in the tiny house, with the mending in her lap, Arthur in his spacious chambers with a throwing knife between his fingers. He would fidget about with it, and twirl it most threateningly (or so at least it was perceived by the people whom would be the accidental target, should it slip--that is to say, Merlin). There was a great deal of grief done to the table in this waiting, which no amount of fretting at it could repair, though Merlin tried his biddyish best. 

They passed a year in this way.

The blooms came shyly out of winter, and were slain again. The boy Mordred lengthened his bones. There was all the usual slap and babble of life going about its business, unhurried, unharried.

If this all sounds a gentle thing, it it seems to you some poem of soft grief, with the waiter in patient melancholy before their moonlit window, we must disabuse you. The Romantics have put an awful lot of rubbish into your head. Gwen was like a war wife, waiting for The Telegram. There was a void inside her, which sometimes was flushed with adrenaline, when she imagined what might have happened to him. She went about in this stumbling way, hollow or frightened, but never more human than that. Probably Keats could have put a better spin on it, but we will not dress it in tinsel, and give it a fair title. Grief is not poetry, it is warfare.

Arthur in the meantime had contemplated regicide no less than five times. He was wedged into that impossible place between his conscience and his heart, which ought to be close bedfellows, and instead had brought arms against one another. He knew Uther was a harmful king; it was not a new discovery, but now he had found a new layer to it, and a new impossibility. He had thought it not absolute. He had seen the two sides of his father’s fist. (Perhaps if he had seen none of it, his thoughts on the matter might have been clearer; but our abusers always muddy things with the terrible hypocrisy of their kindness, which seems all the greater in its rareness. It is a particularly human magic that one kind word should excuse three wretched ones.) He had thought, always, his father at least meant well. If this seems naive, it was not; like most leaders, Uther had the ego to convince himself of his own justice in all matters. For the safety and sanctity of Camelot, he had murdered its innocents; and for the safety and sanctity of Camelot, he had terrorised his son. 

Of course we needn’t say that Arthur couldn’t do it. He had known he ought to, first for his mother, and then for Camelot: when he had held his sword to the hollow of Uther’s throat, he had known it a just act. He could feel it in the soul of him. He wouldn’t like us to say it,  but he had felt it in the same place which loved his mother, and Merlin: and these were the truest feelings he had sustained, through all the hard guidance of his father.

But he had still been held in the stern arms, if rarely. The stern eyes had occasionally softened, and the stern hand occasionally touched his hair. If Uther had done any true cruelty to his son, it was to say things like, “I’m proud of you, Arthur” which confused him, because often he had just been harangued for the opposite, and could not decide whether he was worthy or worthless. 

And so love stayed his hand, and he hoped, with a terrible sickness in his stomach, that in some distant year, when Uther passed, he could right it all. 

Neither he nor Merlin much discussed the magic. Merlin asked him once, not long after it had been revealed, how long it was that Arthur had known; and Arthur looked up from his dinner, and said, “When I was shot by the bandit, in the woods.” He swiped about with his bread, as if it were a participant in the conversation, and ought not to be rudely ignored. “And you saved me.” He flicked the bread about for a while longer. He said, “How many times have you done that? Saved me, I mean.”

Merlin smiled; there was something behind it. It was not a shining thing, but rather something with a cloud over it. “You have no idea how much trouble it is to keep you alive.” He made his voice light. It was a poor attempt; Arthur folded his hands, and looked straight at him in the firelight.

“Did you really think I would turn you over to my father?”

Merlin hesitated. He could lie, or he could say something which would hurt the both of them. He had lied enough. He said, “I couldn’t be sure.”

“Then that was my fault.”

“Arthur--”

“No, Merlin. If you thought you couldn’t come to me about it, then that is my failing.” For a moment he considered how intense it was appropriate to be. He shifted in his chair. He looked steadily onward at Merlin in the firelight, hoping he had put everything he could not voice--or at least not proficiently--into his eyes.

It seemed to do well enough for Merlin. He looked at Arthur in a soft way. 

If they had got a different ending. If they had got a different middle. If there had been any small ripple in the fabric of their narrative. If Fate had not wielded such a heavy pen, with barbarous apathy. If there had been any of these, Merlin might have followed up on the look. They might have embraced with light hearts, and gone to bed, and fought over the covers, and climbed out in the morning well satisfied. 

But Merlin only said, “It almost sounds like you’re...apologising?”

“Almost,” Arthur agreed. “Now off with you. I’m out of ale.”

  
  
  


It is not yet time to address Morgana. She will appear very shortly, to devastating effect. You must learn the same hard lessons as the Merlin who came to Camelot, full of good youth: that all friends are to be lost. But that time has not quite arrived.

It befell that one evening Uther approached Arthur in the hall, and drawing him into a private corner, said in an urgent voice, “Arthur, you must ride out tonight on a mission, alone.” This of course was the voice in which Uther assigned Quests, and Arthur was instantly invested.

“Father?”

“I have learned that Cenred has made a discovery which could be fatal to Camelot.” He did not elaborate on how he knew any of the following; it was not exactly honourable to admit one had spies in other kingdoms, though everyone did it. “There is a grail of great power, which can grant immortality to any who so wishes it. To an entire army, if they like. And Cenred has found it.”

This may all seem familiar; certainly it has put you in mind of The Holy Grail, and therefore misled you. The literature has been rather remiss in the matter of one Arthur Pendragon, as no doubt you have come to realise. 

It was Robert de Boron’s  _ Joseph d’Arimathie _ which first introduced the concept of The Holy Grail and claimed for the Christian race its mythical properties by bundling into it the blood of Our Holy Father, amen. But in the time of Uther Pendragon, it was only a grail, in the nonchalant singular. This was a deep dish or bowl, which we are sure was quite lovely, but nevertheless was only a bowl. It might seem then that the urgent voice was such a lot of fuss for that sort of thing, but in fairness to Uther (since we have rarely been fair to him), this grail was of particular interest for its aforementioned powers. It was in the possession of the Fisher King, who did not collect anything for its bit of flash and pomp. He had got to hoard that sort of thing in order to attract rescuers, for he was horribly wounded, and could be healed by no ordinary means. There has been a lot of speculation over which spear pierced which side, or whether he had got it through the leg; but we can say (behind our hands) that it was a ‘leg’ wound only in polite company, when the speakers were men, or delicate ladies. The Fisher King was missing his...shall we say, for the children, his bits. The dangly ones, in case there should be any confusion for the particularly thick, or virtuous. They had got mangled in a duel, and forevermore produced no children. The Fisher King desired two things: to produce a son, and to die. He had lived three ageless centuries, awaiting either, or both. He could not die till the wound was healed; no one was entirely sure why, though it seemed perhaps a cruelty of the Fae, who were notorious for that sort of thing. They would have liked the viciousness of relieving a man of his manhood, and then obliging him to stay like that. The Fae were often like scorned women. There is the same cleverness and malice in both.

“I don’t have to impress upon you the urgency of this, Arthur. If Cendred gets his hands on this grail before we do--”

“I understand, father. I’ll take only my best men--”

“No. You must go yourself. No one else. You will have to pass through Cendred’s lands. A patrol cannot be caught there. You must travel without any emblems, without any indication whatsoever that you are from Camelot. It will surely mean war if you fail, or are captured.”

Since there had been such emphasis placed on the solitude of Arthur’s task, it was only natural that he should take Merlin with him, and it was only natural that Merlin should take Gwaine with him.

The journey was commonplace enough. The woods were wild with the catspaw tread of silent outlaws, and the owls with quiet hoo-rahs hushed the whispering trees. Gwaine told what in the time of Uther Pendragon could be considered the equivalent of today’s knock-knock joke; we will not elaborate upon them. They were exactly as terrible as anything you told in primary. He had taken it upon himself to cheer them, and knew the best way to do that was to annoy Arthur.

They did not encounter any difficulties whatsoever. There was a grand hurrah, when the Fisher King was lifted out of his boat (he had got his moniker from his hobby, which was fishing, since there is not much to do for a man with a mangled groin, who cannot stand, and cannot fuck) and Merlin stealthily laid upon him his magical touch. There was afterward much feasting, and then the grail was handed to Arthur, who turned it about in his hands, wondering at the ordinariness of it. 

Of course there would be no point to this part of the story if it was all very staid, and the grail won without conflict, and the heroes returned to Camelot without having even put their swords in anyone. It would be a poor Quest indeed, if they had not put their swords in anyone.

They were waylaid some hours from the Fisher King’s abode by Cenred’s men, and Arthur badly wounded. In the chaos, the grail was lost; which seemed at first to Merlin a secondary thing, whilst Arthur lay in his arms with an arrow through him. Afterward the fever set in, and it seemed an even more distant thing. He made a frantic application of his magic, whilst Gwaine was not looking, and it seemed of no consequence; the arrow had been poisoned, and neither of them could win against it.

In the lowering night, which in tepid spring brings brisk memories of December, Merlin put his coat over the both of them, and pressed them together under it. Gwaine was off scouting firewood. They shuddered, together, under the influence of Arthur’s trembling. Merlin buried his face in the back of Arthur’s neck.

Probably he thought, poor Merlin, that there was something he could do about it. Probably he had thought that about all of it, and had to learn with the rest of us that love is no impenetrable shield. Oh, you may hold it so steadily in front of any you wish. Death works blindly, that he may work at all.

“Merlin, if I die,” Arthur got through his chattering teeth, and paused to be sick.

“You won’t die,” Merlin soothed, petting his hair, which is a universal comfort to anyone who has vomited. “I won’t let you.” He did believe that. Sometimes it isn’t naivete; sometimes it is simply too hurtful a thing, to see the world as it is, and not as you hope it to be.

“If I die,” Arthur continued, because he knew he must some day, and it seemed that some day had possibly arrived, “you must return to Camelot. Whatever happens, Merlin--Camelot is what matters.”

It was hard for Camelot to matter, whilst Arthur was dying. Merlin put his arms round Arthur, and held Arthur by the hands he had curled in front of him for warmth, and tried to be brave, in case Arthur was afraid. It did not, even in the long central hours of midnight, when souls take their leave, and the world rests in itself, occur to Merlin that Arthur should finish the act of dying. This was not from any logical conclusion; it simply was that he could not imagine that there could be one of them, and not the other. That seemed to him a fallacy. It seemed to him the world was not like that, and could not be like that. 

But still there must have been some conscious segment of him that had sat before the world’s indifference, and observed its random spite. He lay awake after Arthur had fallen into feverish slumber. He lay awake into the first humble arrival of morning, before it has burst out in a human pride, with standards at full sail. He was still holding the cold hands. He was still breathing into the warm neck. 

Gwaine had come back quietly with the firewood, and lit it quietly, and settled himself quietly against a nearby tree. He did not sleep. He watched them without speaking. He was not as sure as Merlin that Arthur was to live; he knew what the world did to hope. He knew what the world did to love. It had to be a stifled thing, his own grief; that is how men like him are sad. They do not wish to be an inconvenience. They do not understand how to receive friendship, and only give it; and so he did not know that he could have gone to Merlin, and lain on the other side of Arthur, and shared in whatever was to come.

Arthur woke next morning with Merlin curled against him. Their fingers had got tangled somehow, whilst he was dreaming. He clutched them for a moment, in a sort of farewell. 

There would always be this sort of good-bye between them, when on the cusp of something one or the other would need to step back, until Death could finally make no warm tenderness illicit.

He threw off the coat, and tried to stand.

Gwaine and Merlin took hold of him, one under either arm as he cried out and staggered. 

“Shh; don’t move,” Merlin told him, trying to ease him back to the ground. 

But he had slept off the fever with the help of Merlin’s magic, and could not be talked back into the coat before the fire. “Help me onto my horse. We have to find Cenred’s men, before it’s too late.” 

It was already too late. Already as Merlin and Gwaine were assisting Arthur into his stirrups, the grail was being delivered into the hands of Morgause. 

And so do we leave the three friends, and return to Morgana.

  
  
  


Morgana had run straight into the arms of Morgause. There she had busied herself for a very long time, crying pitifully. This was uncharacteristic of Morgana, who could cry more than Arthur, being a lady; but still she had not been raised on it, and thought there were much better things to be done with one’s time. But of course sometimes there is no helping it. Sometimes we must get out the bad bits.

Morgause made an admirable playact of human pity. These sorts of people always know just the mimicry. She made all the correct noises, and yawned, and she administered all the correct head pats, and yawned again. She wondered how long Morgana could carry on, over such a little thing. Morgause did not have any attachments except for herself, and did not understand how one could fret over an old jumble of stones, and some random people who populated them. It seemed to her you could expend the energy of grief on far more useful accomplishments.

She said to Morgana, “Oh, my dear Morgana, why would you waste your tears over these ‘friends’ who have not seen you off, who have not tried to seek you, who have not stood against Uther in your defence? They have cast you out the same as him. We are different; and people don’t like that.” And to Morgana it seemed she was right, and she wept some more. Morgause had thought it would stop the weeping, because of course it was a practical thing to say, and ought to have shut off whatever it was that made people weep. She took Morgana from Orkney Castle, which was not a place conducive to any state of cheerfulness, even when one could boil cats at their will, and had a new dress.

They went to Cenred, who was a great admirer of Morgause’s, on account of the chastity which Arthur had earlier noticed, and her ambition. They were both the sort of people who understood their own worth, which they estimated to be of titanic proportions, certainly more than there had ever been in anyone before. They were both the occupants of drafty constructions which they had outgrown, and though the aesthetic of today would certainly appreciate the amount of ivy and mystique to which both were prone, Cenred and Morgause were in the mood for something a bit shinier. Morgause did not like the way Uther had banned her, nor the way Arthur had failed to sleep with her. Cenred did not like Uther for a myriad of reasons which we will not bother to list, as surely by now it is obvious why it should be that someone might harbour a few uncharitable thoughts about him. We have harboured a few of our own. 

When it befell that the grail which we have already mentioned was discovered in the possession of the Fisher King, it seemed to Morgause and Cenred that they had suddenly at their fingertips the means of their Ascension. 

Because it would be easy to judge her, and say she ought to have resisted, you must understand, Morgana had gone alone into the world. She did not know about the letter. She did not know about Lancelot. She had known, as we have seen, the conditions of even abiding loves, and how it was that she violated them. It was easy for her to accept that they had withdrawn their affections, and left her to all the wild world, and its attendant ills. 

It is a hard thing to stomach, that good intentions should be achieved by evil deeds, or that the oppressed may rise up to become the oppressor. Humans are cyclic; we do not learn from our mistakes, we learn from our persecution, that we may better repeat it. It must seem that of course Morgana could not do to others what had been done to her, but the subversion of power is a hasty thing, in order to snuff its subsequent rebellions; and so we must look to the past, and how it has been wielded. It is not that leaders come to power in a different way; it is that they come to it with different justifications. For a while perhaps it had to be ugly, for the sake of the innocent. This was what Morgana decided, and Arthur had contemplated. The difference was this: Morgana had been powerless, and Arthur had not. Arthur could think of the innocents which would be harmed in their own cause. Morgana could think of her own injustice, and the injustices which had been done to the rest of her kind. Discrimination is its own fuel, and lights a terrible flame. 

So when the grail was waylaid, Morgause took into it the blood of Cenred’s army, and bound it to her, and pronounced them ageless. And she turned to Morgana, and said to her, “You’re going to be queen! Isn’t that lovely?” (If it seems a selfless thing Morgause was doing, putting Morgana onto the throne of Camelot, it is easier to seat a rightful heir; and she had a great faith in the deftness of her own puppeteering.) 

Cenred, on the other hand, did not like the idea that anyone aside from him should reap the benefits, which was fair enough; it was his army. However, the army had been bound to Morgause, and so when he made a try at whingeing over the whole affair, and putting down his foot at the idea that anything should be done without his express blessing, at his express bidding, she said, “ _ Your _ army?” and made a judgemental motion with her eyebrows. She proceeded to demonstrate the flaw in his reasoning by ordering one of the soldiers which stood on patrol at the entryway to the throne room to kill him. Cenred was a fine warrior, and would have fared well enough, if his enemy had not had the advantage of immortality. When you stab a man, it is expected that he stays stabbed; and it is rude for him to deviate from this. Cenred, having for a moment forgot the entire point of the grail, and the blood ceremony which Morgause had performed over it, felt very smug about his victory, and turned to Morgause, away from the body of his slain opponent. He was stabbed in the back, and expired in a great deal of blood and surprise. You would not have liked to spend any more time in his company, so do not consider it too wasteful. It might seem pointless, to have trotted him out on stage for only a moment, and then to have killed him, before all the marks of his character can be tallied into virtue or vice, and one’s mind quite made up about him; but after all, he had the army, and really nothing else to contribute. 

Morgana jumped when he was killed. She had seen death in the court of Uther Pendragon; but it is not really a lady’s duty to see it up close, or to feel its blood upon her cheek. She was shaken. She stared for a long time at the body with the hole through its back. It frightened her, to be made intimately aware of the body’s fallibility, and the swiftness with which it could be emptied.

The army set out for Camelot at dawn. If you have never seen an army on the move, it is a magnificent thing. These were only foot soldiers, as cavalry is only employed against other cavalry, or when there is the need for the advantage of a mounted man over an unseated one, and we cannot think of a single advantage which a mortal army has upon an immortal one. Except perhaps less complicated existential crises, but that is all. 

There flashed in the morning sun the glittering weapons, which at march look to be a ripple, as in the spine of a serpent, or an unsettled lake. For some miles there is an entire cacophony of stamping feet and chiming armour, which sounds faintly orchestral; the conductor is rather mad, but perhaps he is being experimental. 

You cannot really imagine what it is, to see all along the horizon nothing but the usual ensemble of nature, all where it is supposed to be, and suddenly a black mass stretching the same incomprehensible distance. At first it is only vaguely unsettling; the mass is indistinguishable. Probably you would mutter under your breath. Next you would point it out to your mate, and speculate for a bit. And then, suddenly, it is distinguishable. This is not a sight, it is a feeling. Awe is not the word we mean; that has a church-like texture to it. But it is something like that, a quickening, an instinct of magnificence. For a moment fear is itself cowed by the impression of this mass, which makes anything else small before it. 

The ladies rode at the head of it, fetching in silk, with their long hair in the wind. The horses stepped in time to the boots, and altogether it was quite the orderly procession, as the magical undead tend to be. They had passed out of humanity, and so the human nuisances of blisters, and empty stomachs, and whether or not one’s marching mate was poking one with his sword, or the halberd over his shoulder, could all be handily ignored. They marched on, imperturbable. And the lands expelled all their startled inhabitants of brush and tree, and sent them wild into new havens, with panicked bleating.

And Camelot’s scouts fled before them, riding at full gallop for the citadel.

  
  
  


There were three forces converging on Camelot at that moment. Lancelot had survived many an Adventure, in his pursuit of Morgana, and was about to embark on his last. He had found her in the court of Cenred, too late; he had watched the blood ceremony over the grail, and set out at a mad gallop, to reach Camelot ahead of the army. 

At the same time, Gwaine, Arthur and Merlin were careening in the same direction. They had to stop often, to put Arthur back on his horse; he would faint from the pain of his wound, and then, white-lipped, heave himself once more into the saddle. Merlin had stopped him from dying; he had not stopped him from suffering. He would need some days to recover; he did not have them. Merlin put Arthur into his coat, and had to be content with this amount of nurturing. Gwaine would gallop past deftly at intervals, and right Arthur whenever he began to list.

“We’re not going to make it. They have a head start on us already, and Cenred’s kingdom isn’t far from Camelot’s borders. They must have crossed over into it already.” Merlin had said this in a low voice to Gwaine, during one of those intervals when Arthur was beginning to look a bit misty again.

“I’m wounded, Merlin, I’m not deaf,” he said, and leaned over to retch. “There’s nothing to be done but keep pushing.”

“There’s nothing to be done at all, Arthur.” There was a new tiredness in Merlin’s voice. “Are we going to fight an entire army of men who can’t die? Just the three of us?”

“Camelot is not lost,” Arthur said, without wavering. It was not that he believed it; it was that he had to believe it. 

You must remember: Camelot was his second great love, and only by a brief margin. It had been put into his arms when he was just a boy, and he had loved it all his life. He was like a mother who has lost her child, and does not understand. 

“Gwaine, will you get some water, please?” Merlin asked when they had been forced to stop once more, with Arthur half-conscious over the mane of his horse, trickling what little was left in his stomach onto the poor beast’s neck. “Arthur!” he said, and taking him beneath his underarms, dragged him from the horse, and into the soft grass. “You’re killing yourself.”

Arthur pressed his forehead to Merlin’s. He was afraid, and in pain, and he did not have time to care about the weaknesses of sentimentality. “You can do something, can’t you? With your magic? Merlin?”

Merlin stroked the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He could not fight an army. He could not kill the unkillable. He said, “Camelot is not lost, Arthur.” He could not say anything else. He had the same incomprehension for failing Arthur as Arthur had for failing Camelot. 

And so they rode stout-hearted into the city, with naked blades. 

It would seem we can no longer put off what we have already foretold. And you will have to learn, as so too will Merlin, the frailty of heroes in their human skins. 

  
  
  


Whilst the boys were riding to save Camelot, Cenred’s army had already penetrated into the heart of Camelot. Gwen heard the cries in the lower town; she came out of her house to watch the guard take their stand, and be slaughtered. She watched Cenred’s men pull bits of dagger unblooded from their hearts, and fled into the citadel. She was not in search of any shelter for herself; she had thought of Gaius, poor, rheumatic old Gaius, and what might be done to him. She found him in his chambers, and babbled out what she had witnessed, and took him by the hand. Gwen knew every stone and niche of the castle; she guided them by its back passages, and hid Gaius in one of the servants’ quarters where neither master nor intruder could penetrate. 

It was a hard thing, to leave him. He was so terribly old. He was so terribly sad. He was tired in a way which mere years could not make him. He was afraid in a way which mere self-preservation could not make him. We only have to do a bit of looking before we can find something more important than us; and having found it, we know suddenly a new despair. This is the failing of language, to quantify this. 

Gwen pressed his hands. “I have to go, Gaius, I’m sorry; I must find Mordred. He’ll be so frightened.” 

This was an unnecessary inhumanity of Fate; but perhaps for once it was helpless, against something so powerful as kindness. 

At the same time, Lancelot had reached the lower town. He had fought his way through the immortal patrols; a man who cannot be killed can still have his hands lopped off, and find afterward some difficulty in trying to lift his sword. Would that we had the talent to eulogise this. There was no moon to light his whirling blade; in the darkness his deeds were quite anonymous. He moved, not as a man. He had held the tunnel against Hengist’s charging masses, until he couldn’t; and he would smite the undying army, until he couldn’t. He had no thought of any glory. There was never any braggadocio in Lancelot; he believed in kindness. He believed in justice. He believed we are all here, to help in the balancing of the world’s sometimes unwieldy scales. Perhaps sometimes it must be that men like this leave us cruelly, so that we might believe it as well, by the persuasiveness of their martyrdom.

He was afraid, for Camelot, for its innocents, for the king he would never serve. But he loved Gwen. That is what pushed him onward. That is what turned him upon the same enemy, twice, thrice, as they fell, and fell again. That is what drove him up the highest tower, into the highest window, by the tips of his fingers and the toes of his boots. That is what threw him into her disbelieving arms, when he rounded a corner in one of the halls and found her putting the boy Mordred into her warmest cloak with trembling fingers.

“Lancelot!” she cried, with something like pain in her voice. She had entered that sharpness of relief that is so near to resignation the heart cannot distinguish between them; she had the same pain as if he were dead. For a moment she could not believe in the corporeality of his dear head, which she clutched at the base with the same trembling fingers she had used to do up the cloak. She said his name again. She was trying to bring herself into believing. She kissed him in a way the boy Mordred probably should not have witnessed. 

Lancelot was in the same state. He tried to kiss every bit of her face he could reach, whilst she was trying to kiss every bit of his face she could reach. It was not particularly artistic; but there was a lot of heart in it. 

“The citadel has fallen,” she said into his chest; she could not say it elsewhere. His arms he had ceded control to, and they could not be persuaded into giving her up. He held the beating heart to him, and felt in her all the soft breath of her living warmth, and pressed his face into the shining hair. “There were men, Lancelot, who couldn’t be killed--I watched the patrol--”

“I know. Morgause and Morgana have brought them from Cenred’s kingdom. They are spelled to be immortal.”

“Morgana?” Gwen whispered, and her voice left in pieces, and probably, as some things never are once they are broken, it would never be quite the same afterward. 

“Where’s Arthur?”

“I don’t know. He and Merlin and Gwaine disappeared days ago; I’ve heard nothing. I don’t know...I don’t know if they’re even still alive. Arthur would never leave Camelot to this. If he could--.” There was a heaving inside of her. She remembered the boy Mordred, looking on unblinking, so small in his cloak. 

It was all terribly brave of her, poor Gwen. She had taken such a mass onto her shoulders, when it seemed to her the whole lot of it could not be borne. The best of us feel like that, and take it up regardless. 

 

 

 

Arthur was then breaking into his own home, with one arm round Gwaine, and the other round Merlin; they had often to hold him up entirely on the way to Gaius’ chambers, where he was laid on the work table, and Merlin set about with the herbal compresses and bandaging. Merlin did not comment on the absence of Gaius. He did not think where he could be, and in what state. He focused on the tender flesh underneath him, with gentle and nimble fingers. Gwaine went for the armoury, in which there was nothing that could help them; but one could hardly have a romantic last stand without the proper armaments. 

Merlin sponged the sweat from Arthur’s brow, and the neck of his shirt. He sewed up the wound whilst Arthur lay very still, digging into the wood of the table underneath him till he had broken off all his fingernails. 

They were both panting when it was over; Merlin felt he had done the pain to himself, in delivering it upon Arthur. He helped Arthur upright once more, holding him by the forearms. “I’m going to leave you here.”

“What?” Arthur asked, blinking. 

“Well, if we destroy the grail, that ought to break the spell, right? Cenred will have it with him. And I’m the only one who can get to it without being seen by anyone. That’s the only chance we’ve got, Arthur.”

“No.”

“You can say what you like, but unless you can stop me, you don’t really have any say in it. And I don’t think you’re quite in the state to do that.”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe.” He was doing back up the laces of Arthur’s shirt, without looking at him. He knew there would be a look in Arthur’s eyes he could not bear. He knew there would be a tension round the soft mouth that spoke to a time it had wept, under similar circumstances, and had got the mawkishness beat out of it. “I’ll try not to?”

“That isn’t good enough for me.  _ Merlin _ \--” He could not say it even now. What a simple thing it is to love; Gwen and Lancelot were doing it flawlessly, without even wondering that it should have touched them. They were sound in one another’s arms. They could not be safe; they could be together. Sometimes that is a fine enough substitute. 

But oh, Arthur, who had been taught all the wrong ways of love. 

“Merlin--” he tried again.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t let Gwaine come after me. Tell him whatever you have to.” Merlin took a small liberty. He thought he was not coming back. He thought he would see the precious, knobhead face this one last time. He kissed the pale forehead. 

Arthur held himself very still. He was trying to be casual about it. He thought perhaps if he could maintain a certain equilibrium. He thought perhaps if he had a certain noble insouciance. We always want something we can deploy against the unalterable. It is silly; but we must know we have some say in the story. 

But of course he was afraid, nevertheless. He groped about for Merlin’s waist, and for a moment squeezed it in his arms. 

Merlin pulled back. He opened his big sodding mouth.

“Don’t say good-bye to me,” Arthur told him. He made his voice steady so that it was an order. 

Probably it was Merlin sensed how close Arthur was to despair. Probably it was that he knew Arthur had to go on believing he would not lose Camelot, and he would not lose Merlin. He smiled. There would be many smiles like this in the life of Arthur Pendragon; in fact he would see it in the end, last of everything. It was to tell him, all would be well. It was to tell him: sometimes when we think we cannot go any further, we must crawl on a bit more, past any mortal endurance. He would have crawled on bleeding hands, and stumps of legs, wherever the smile required him. 

If he could only have said this, it would have been a lovely parting indeed. But he could say nothing. There was a part of him which feared that if he acknowledged it, he could never have it again; this was another lesson of Uther Pendragon, who liked to take things when the boy was attached to them, so he learnt what folly is loving ephemeral possessions, of which mankind is the most ephemeral of all. 

It was Merlin who had to do it. He said, “Right,  _ sire _ ,” and bowed, and was gone. 

  
  
  


We must for a moment address what had been done with Uther.

He was among the first captured, and Morgause had him thrown into the dungeons, so that he could stamp his feet a bit and stew over what was to be done with him. 

When he was seized by either arm, and drug into the throne room, it was his first glimpse of the true perpetrators. He had thought to look upon the indignity of Cenred in his hallowed chair, wearing his hallowed crown. Instead he saw before him Morgana, pale, composed, with lofty chin.

It is difficult to parse the emotions of Morgana Pendragon in this moment. She was looking upon a father; we cannot forget that. She had known him first as a surrogate one, and then as an authentic one; and she had never known him as anything else. We can rail against their imperfections, and the insecurites for which they destroy us, so we do not tiptoe afterward, in the tread of their bygone mistakes.

But still they have raised us, and put something of themselves into us. There is no hatred more muddled than that of a child for their parent. It seems a gross indecency, and shames us; and illogically, indignantly, we love them; oh, still we love them. 

Morgana stood before Uther in his crown and wanted to put her face in her hands. She saw the look on his face. She imagined the same look on Arthur’s face. She had sheltered in their arms; she had eaten at their table. 

But she did what Arthur could not. She went to the throne, and sank with watery knees onto its cushions. She said to all the waiting court: “For his crimes against magic users, I condemn the former king of Camelot, Uther Pendragon, to death.” She said it through stiff lips. As soon as she was done, they turned pliant, and seemed to dissolve; there was throughout her face a similar yielding. She put it then into her hands, and wept with mad abandon. 

“Morgana--” Uther whispered. You might expect pleading; there was only a tired grief, and something of the same love which she harboured for him. Perhaps there was a little less loathing in his own; for she was his child, whatever else she might be. There were the same involuntary things in Uther which he had tried to crush out of his son. We do not destroy something because we stand unfeeling before it, dead to its pitfalls. Perhaps, when he was very young, there had been something of Arthur Pendragon in him; and some other man had done it a great unkindness, and he had let go of it. Perhaps that was the only difference between Uther and Arthur, and we have been untoward in our moral assessments. Sometimes there are those of us that cling to what we love indefinitely, however it wound us; and some of us let it up immediately, with a hiss at how it has burned.

She spoke to him not as a conqueror. She was merely his daughter. She was merely justified. That is all we must tell ourselves.

“I can’t let you hurt anyone else, Uther. No one should live in fear because of some accident of birth. Existence is not a crime. You loved me all my life--you loved the same  _ me _ ! I was always like this. Because neither of us knew it doesn’t change everything I am.”

“That’s very lovely, Morgana,” said Morgause, who was really quite tired of all this, and motioned to the guard. “The execution will take place at dawn tomorrow. Take him back to the dungeons.” 

Uther did the first redemptive thing he had done thus far as he was being led back into the corridor. He was stricken. Gaius probably would have given it the name of ‘apoplexy’; today we would know it as a stroke. It was a massive one; something had given up in him. It might be that it had already been waiting to go; but it cannot be denied that the shock which he had just received contributed to it. This is all rampant speculation; but it is theorised it was a broken heart that did it. And I think we ought to let it lie like that: as we have already said, Uther Pendragon loved his children, imperfectly, inhumanly--but we cannot ignore that there was some bright kernel of paternal ardour, somewhere. We do not have to forgive him; but perhaps it is better that the time of Uther Pendragon expire gently, with a father rather than a king. 

  
  
  


Lancelot, Gwen, and their charges had made it to the lower town. There were still the dying, and dead, guard. There were still the marks left by Lancelot’s earlier battle. He said, in his quiet way, “Gwen, get Mordred and Gaius to safety.”

We have to think Gwen must have known. But she had the child; she had the old man. 

There was no good-bye. Sometimes stories are like that. Sometimes life is like that.

Cenred’s men came upon him with a great clatter; it was as if he had been on some placid bank, and suddenly the waters had overtaken him. He resurfaced, briefly; and the sword flashed all about him, ever falling. That was all she saw. That was all she had. 

“Come now, Mordred; Lance has given us a head start. Wasn’t that brave of him? Now you’ve got to be brave like that. Can you do that for me?” she asked, and somehow turned the trembling inside her throat into a sort of cheerfulness, though a part of her was dying, and would always be dying. It was not a nice, past tense sort of thing; it was not content to die, and be gone. 

But she led them on, through the city, into the woods, helping Gaius on ahead of her, and the boy on behind her, watching where they stepped, unwinding the cloak when it was snagged on branch or bramble, supporting the shaking old limbs, soothing the frightened young ones.

“Oh, Gwen,” Gaius said, when he had finally got to sink down on a log, and tend to his knees. “My dear Gwen,” he said, and could get on no further. 

  
  
  


Merlin had told a lie to Arthur. Or, rather, he had implied something which was not true, which is only a gentler way of going about it. He had told Arthur he was the only one of them who could get unseen to the grail; this was only supposition. He knew an invisibility spell, but it was finicky, and without stamina; probably he could get unseen into the throne room, where Cenred had ensconced himself. It was unlikely he could get out. That was why he had kissed the pale forehead, and given the worried face one fond last look. He wished now he had said something profound. One does like to make a neat exit, with all one’s vowels tidy. He had reached the throne room, and realised everything he wanted Arthur to know, since he was thick, and might not have guessed it, despite the nose rubbing. He paused for a moment outside the doors.

There was so much for him to leave; but he mumbled the spell. He tiptoed into the room. He said, to himself, all the beloved names of those he wished to be happy, and live. There was a little Gwaine in him; he thought they musn’t struggle for long with his leaving. He was only a very small thing, after all. 

He had thought, like Uther, to see Cenred; he was not ready for it to be Morgana. He stopped. There was a hot rush of something in his throat. He realised they were no longer passive adversaries, by some decree of Uther’s which Arthur could overturn, when the kingdom had passed into his hands. He was looking upon an enemy. He was looking upon someone he had touched, and breakfasted beside, and loved.

It is possible Morgana would have looked upon him with the same hot something in her throat. But the spell had worked; she looked through him. They did not make a desperate go of it with longing eyes, to come to some middle ground. 

He shook himself. He looked round the room, and saw beside Morgana, looking smug, Morgause. She had the grail next to her her, on a little table. There was beside that the slender little hand, with rings that turned the light convex, and sent it cheerily toward the ceiling. He would need to move the hand, to reach the grail.

He had made it nearly to the table when there was a clanking at the open door, and two soldiers came through it, dragging a man by either arm. 

Morgana whispered, “Lancelot!” a moment before Merlin recognised him. He was badly smushed about the face, and covered in blood. He had taken at least twenty sword thrusts, and kept breathing. This was either fascinating to the soldiers, or they had been given some earlier order, and brought him to their mistress, instead of making it twenty one sword thrusts. 

“Queen Morgause,” one of the soldiers addressed himself to his master. “We found this man in the lower town. There was a woman with an old man and a child; they escaped in the confusion.” The confusion had been Lancelot, throwing himself madly into the fray no matter how many times it replenished itself, till there had been an adequate amount of time for Gwen to have reached the woods, and he could fall. He had not fallen a moment earlier. He had taken a kidney wound, and one through his liver; there had been what ought to have marked the finishing blow, in his left lung, and he had gone on as if immortal himself, without missing any of his steps. We have said he loved her; and now perhaps you understand. 

“Take him to the dungeons,” Morgana ordered. “Have someone tend to his wounds.” So you see she was not gone; she still knew to save him, for his goodness. 

But Morgause did not care about that sort of thing. Personally, she found it quite intrusive. A conscience is like a hobble, and keeps us from our true potential. She said, “Oh, Morgana, don’t be silly. He’s clearly dangerous. Kill him.”

The soldiers were bound to obey; they moved against him instantly.

But Merlin was still beside the grail. He had not touched the ringed hand. He had not stirred the black mane. He was still wholly unknown.

He put out his hand, and cast another spell.

He could not hold the two at once, especially as his grasp on the invisibility spell was so shaky. The swords which the guards had thought to stick through Lancelot flew suddenly from their hands at the same moment Merlin popped into existence. It was as if he had come unseen from some hidden door, and now everyone stood blinking at his rudeness for having not even knocked. 

He was looking at Lancelot when one of the guards posted at the door, who had heard an order, and seen it unfulfilled, stepped forward and gave a great chop at Lancelot’s neck with his sword. It was much quicker than it has taken to tell it. Merlin did not have time to stop it. The sword came down with the sort of noise you hear when a cleaver makes neat work of the cut underneath it, only a human neck is not a piece of beef, and the sword had not yet been re-sharpened. It came down on the base of his head, where Gwen had stroked with glad fingers, and marveled at the life in it. The first cut killed him; so you may take what comfort you can in that. There were two more, to cut through the whole lot of it, so the noble head could be detached.

Merlin made a noise that was not human. We cannot say that grief ever is.

Morgause made a guttural sound under her breath; Merlin was flung by her spell into the wall, and there pinned, with something like a hand in his throat, so that he could only make first an ineffectual thrashing, and then an ineffectual choking.

Morgana had slid out of the throne and onto the floor.

“Is this what you were looking for?” Morgause asked, lifting the grail in her hand. She did not sound smug about it; it was not an attempt at a Hengist type of speech. Probably men are more prone to that, as they have to explain everything, so their cleverness is obvious. She was only curious that the skinny brunette who belonged to Arthur should try to thwart her. 

She did not say anything else. There was a soft sort of swishing which might have been anything. 

Morgause stood very still for a moment, with a crossbow bolt between her eyes. Morgana made the same noise which Merlin had made, and found it was no longer sufficient to kneel on the floor; she had to sprawl out across it, on her stomach. There is something vital in the limbs that puts us upright: it is a magic of its own. She no longer had it. 

Arthur and Gwaine had crept their faltering way to one of the alcoves overlooking the throne room, which in celebratory times were packed with anyone who did not merit an invitation to the actual festivity, but was at least important enough to gaze longingly upon it. Arthur had taken up the crossbow Gwaine had lifted from the armoury the moment Morgause turned on Merlin; Gwaine had not seen him move that quickly in days. He stood with the aid of the wall, swaying a little, the sweat standing out on his brow.

He was still in shooting position when Morgause fell. The grail came down beside her in pieces. 

Merlin had fallen to his knees. He looked up to the alcove, and saw the grim face, colourless. Arthur was now leaning on the railing. He had put the last of his strength into the shot, and slid into a boneless faint. The pain was tremendous; he could not have managed it for anyone else. If he had had between himself and death only the effort of loading the bow, and standing to fire it, he would have died. 

Gwaine vaulted the railing. There was a convenient table to break his fall; his sword was already out when he landed. He must have looked horrifying, to the cowering Morgana. There was something on his face she had never seen before. It was grief: but the terrible sort, which must slake itself on revenge. He had not had it in him to be furious; he was sometimes gently put out, when he had been drinking, or someone was aggressive with Merlin. He was not thunderous; he knew men like him were not allowed to be thunderous. They can only feel an injustice somewhere it does not show.

But he came down from the alcove like something monstrous. Morgana clawed at the stones to be away from him; she tore her nails. She tore her dress. She thought he had come for her. She thought in that moment, with the two pieces of Lancelot before her, that retribution had been sent from God for the destruction of his gentlest Creation. They had taken something out of the world that could not be put back. They had taken something from Gwen that could not be put back. 

But Gwaine had not come for her. She was an afterthought. He stood over Merlin on the floor, and smashed back the soldiers who in a confusion relapsed into killing. They did not know what else to do, and came on in a rush, trying to spit their common enemy. He fought as Lancelot had fought in the lower town. He was protecting something sacred; he did not have time to die. He took a few wounds of middling severity in the process of killing half a dozen of them. The rest retreated. They had no one to tell them otherwise. They had no one to send them onward. There was no longer any motivation to die. A soldier is only as self-sacrificing as his command, and, leaderless, he reverts to the baseness of self-preservation. They fled.

There was something snuffed in Gwaine when they did so. He sat down, hard, on the floor beside Merlin. 

Morgana had gone in the disorientation. They were alone with the corpse of Lancelot, in the silence of battlegrounds when they have done with the titanic confrontation of man and beast, and there are only empty humans.

  
  
  


Uther was not dead, in the technical sense. This was discovered during the aftermath, whilst Gwen, Gaius and Mordred were being salvaged from the woods, and the last of Cenred’s men valiantly driven out. The essentialness of spirit that makes a man more than the mechanical articulation of his limbs had burnt out. He was now only meat. He lay slackly in his bed, and drooled on himself. If a piece of him had been salvaged, he could not communicate it; occasionally he blinked, if he was feeling extra chatty.

Lancelot was received into the earth of the local cathedral’s burial grounds, as the church demanded of anyone who had died in their parish. It was only a nondescript thing, lined with stones, though Arthur had commissioned a marvelous marble slab to be erected afterward, so that his deeds might outlive him.

Gwen held herself with composure; Merlin did not. He made no noise, but shook with a quiet bereavement next to Arthur. Arthur was still. He stood as if making an inspection, with his head bare in the rain. He was afraid to disturb their grief. He was afraid to disturb his own. It seemed to him to be motionless suggested he was grounded, and leaderly, and to be these things was better than to be devastated. He had been appointed as regent in the wake of Uther’s illness, and needed to be understanding but stalwart, for the sake of his people. They did not need a mushy regent, who went to pieces over a thing like funerals, and the quiet hopelessness which he could see in Gwen’s eyes, and did not know how to address. He stirred only when Merlin’s sniffling had become unbearable, and passed him a handkerchief. 

Afterward they made Gwen tea (or something of that sort), and put her feet into hot water, and made general nuisances of themselves; but it was kindly meant, so she hid that they had made the water too hot, and steeped the tea to bitterness. Gwaine plumped up the pillows on her bed in a self-important way. Arthur made a sweet but misguided attempt at dinner, and had to be rescued by Merlin. The house had nearly come to grief; Merlin put out the smouldering with a discreet spell. He said to Arthur under his breath, “Don’t ever cook anything. Ever. Again.”

When Arthur had to get back to being king, they left the small house and its inhabitant to Gwaine, and slogged back through the muddy lower town. Merlin put his hands under his arms; it was a reluctant spring that year, and could not decide whether it quite wanted to take. He was quiet for most of their walk. He said finally, before they crossed the drawbridge, “What’s going to happen to Morgana?”

“She’s committed treason,” Arthur said in a numb sort of way. “I can’t--I can’t excuse or ignore what she’s done. There’s been a patrol sent to look for her. If they find her--”

“You can’t execute her, Arthur.”

“I can’t  _ not  _ execute her, Merlin. Innocent…” He took a breath. It seemed for a moment he could not go on; but it only stuck for a moment. He could only afford it to stick for a moment. “Innocent men and women died because of her actions. It would be a betrayal of the people to bring her back as if nothing happened.”

“It could have been me, you know. Not that I ever would have been exiled, Uther would have chopped off my head and been done with it, but if I had...and I was out there, alone, scared, if I thought everyone I ever knew, and loved, hated me, that they were hunting me--”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Merlin stopped. He was suddenly angry. It was all that leftover sadness, with nowhere to be expelled. He was bitter in an uncharacteristic way. He was bitter against himself, against Arthur, against Morgana--against Lancelot for dying. It was unfair of him; but we do not have to be fair when we are hurting. “It isn’t that she’s evil, Arthur! Uther  _ murdered  _ us. He made us...inhuman. We can’t help being monsters, between our births, and his laws--and neither one is exactly something we can just stop doing! We can’t stop  _ being _ , because he  _ decreed  _ it, and if I had been out there, with nothing, with no one--”

“You wouldn’t have been alone,” Arthur said, looking down so he could adjust his glove in a self-conscious way. He was overly aware of himself, and his feelings, and thought he might crawl out of his skin, to be away from the unbearableness of it. “I’d have followed you.”

It settled Merlin a little. The anger turned crisply into weariness. He said, as if Arthur were dim, “That would be treason.”

“Yes,” Arthur said to the glove. He looked up after he had run out of excuses to play with it. “Merlin. I would commit treason for you. A thousand times over.” He sighed and pushed the side of Merlin’s head with the tips of his fingers. “Don’t look so pleased. If you weren’t so daft, and disobedient, and  _ shifty _ \--”

“Arthur, you know me, I’m an open book--”

“Don’t interrupt while I’m insulting you,” Arthur scolded him. “By order of the regent.” Something passed over his face as he said it. Merlin waited for him to pretend it had only been a bit of indigestion. 

Arthur opted to change the subject entirely. “I still have to tell Mordred his mother is dead. By my hand. I’ve been trying to think how to say it, and I can’t--”

“You don’t have to,” Merlin interrupted softly. “She was a terrible mother, Arthur. Maybe it’s better she just fades out of his life.”

For some time Arthur squinted off into the distance, contemplating this. “No,” he said at last. “It wouldn’t be fair, to raise him ignorantly in the court of his mother’s murderer. I couldn’t bear it. It would lie between us.”

And so he went to the boy Mordred, and told him true. He did not excuse himself; he did not slander the boy’s mother; he did not think it fair. He was only a very small boy, after all, as Arthur had been a very small boy who did not understand the nuances of his father’s decent and terrible actions, and only loved him. He thought what a cruel thing, to take that from a child.

Mordred did not understand at first. He looked up at Arthur with big eyes. Finally it occurred to him that mummy was like the cat now. There was a slow revolution of suppressed emotions inside of him; they were deciding whether it was safe to cry. Mummy had not liked that; it gave her a headache. 

Arthur went on bended knee before him, and bowed his head. “Mordred,” he said, with a cracking voice Mordred had never heard in humans, till he came to Camelot, “there are no words to express how sorry I am.”

It was good, and honourable of him; and it murdered him.

  
  
  


Arthur came to his father in the evenings, after his duties, and sat with him awhile. He did not know that it helped either of them. He put the hair back from Uther’s eyes, and held the sad veined hands in his own. He was brave for them both, even when he was tired, and sore from training, and did not feel like it, even when it seemed to him that he must rage, and throw things into the wall, and burst out crying like a child. There was an eternal cresting of warmth in his throat. There was an eternal cresting of warmth in his eyes. He did not know what should happen if he let go of either. It seemed to him that when one did not know their feelings for a parent, when one did not know if their love was filial or true, it never healed. Uther had been festering in his heart for all his young life. He would remember a kind thing, and then an evil one; and went on in the evenings loathing and despairing him in turn, so that he was more confused than ever. Merlin lurked about in a concerned way in the background, pretending to some chore or another. That was his cue to be straight-backed, to be kingly, to be unruffled. He could not burst or rage, even in front of Merlin.

He said once, whilst Merlin was not looking at him, “I used to dream sometimes, when I was a boy, that he would go away. That my mother would come back, and he would just...disappear. And we would be happy together. When I was older, I thought sometimes that I would sneak into his room, and put a pillow over his face. And now that I ought to, when he’s suffering, when he’s trapped...I can’t do it. That is your prince, Merlin. That is the man who will be king.” He was holding his father’s still-living hands whilst the mind, perhaps doddering, perhaps crisp, wandered in far lands, and the milky eyes followed afterward. They did not look at their son. They did not light at his voice; they did not leap at his touch. 

Merlin had stopped pretending he was doing something of vital import, or even of vague necessity. He put down the tunic which had no dust to be beat from it. “You will be the greatest king Camelot has ever known, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at his father. He could not look at Merlin. “How can you possibly know that?” There was a bleakness in his voice Merlin could not bear. 

“Because I know you, Arthur. And I believe in you.”

  
  
  


Uther went on in much the same vein, till Gaius could not stand it anymore. He had applied all his knowledge, and his tinctures. He said in the gentlest way he had, during one of Arthur’s evening visits, “Sire, he will not improve. There is nothing else I can do. He is too far gone, I am afraid.” He looked down upon the boy sitting at his father’s bedside, touching his father’s waxen cheek, and thought how very young he still was. He had a moment in which his voice failed him; he put a soft hand on Arthur’s shoulder in order to prepare them both. He said, “I have some herbs which can make his passing easier. He won’t be in pain.”

“You mean poison,” Arthur said after a long moment. There was no tone to his voice. It had gone completely flat. He sat at the edge of Uther’s bed, hunched in a defeated sort of way, as if there was no longer anything bracing to him. 

“Sometimes we must help them to let go when there is no hope, and they are suffering. Your father’s spirit has not failed him; but his body has. This is no life for him, Arthur.”

“I know, Gaius.” He straightened himself up. He patted the hand on his shoulder; he clutched it for a moment. There was a struggle inside him which he did not allow to manifest anywhere Gaius should see it. He must, forevermore, be strong for the sake of his People. “But you are a physician, Gaius. Your job is to mend your patients, not kill them. Let it be on no one’s conscience but my own.”

“Arthur--”

“That is an order, Gaius.”

Gaius mixed up his concoction wordlessly. He handed it to Arthur with tears in his throat. 

“Inform everyone, including Merlin, that they are not to enter. I need...a moment with him.”

The tears had moved from Gaius' throat to his eyes. He stared down at the fair head swimmingly; he did not sniffle. He did not think the boy should have to bear anything else. He said, with the hard-won steadiness medicine gives to its practitioners, who must inevitably fail the best of lives, “Of course. My Lord.”

When the door had shut, Arthur sat unmoving with the vial which Gaius had handed him. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the headboard of the bed. He was searching for the words which he had thought to himself so many lonely nights, and hollow victories. He had, in the restless anger of his myriad punishments, when he had thought himself aggrieved, when he had thought himself unloved, spun entire speeches, of foaming but eloquent quality. He had dazzled those devil’s advocates of Self-Doubt, and Loathing. And now he had nothing. 

“I have loved and hated you all my life,” he said at last, and could get on no farther.

  
  
  


He came into the hall outside his father’s chambers sometime later. He was perfectly calm. He was perfectly kingly. 

Merlin jumped up from the chair he had brought, in preparation for the possibility that he might have to sit outside all night. He fussed round with his hands, which felt to him useless.

“Gaius, if you would pronounce him, and have him prepared for the vigil. Merlin, I’ll need you to attend me in my chambers.”

They had a long walk in complete silence. Arthur closed the door behind them, and bolted it. He moved as if it were any other night. He took off his knives as if it were any other night. The rings were next. He laid them all on the table, in a neat row. 

“Arthur--”

“See to the fire, would you?” Arthur said, with the same composure, and got halfway through taking off his coat when suddenly a great sob wracked him, and on its heels several more, so that Merlin had to assist him in completing the act. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, as if his grief were a thing that could be pushed back into him. He went on heaving, noiselessly, trying to breathe. It was all terribly violent; his body was trying to expel every minute detail of the troubled relationship which he had shared, and now ended, with Uther. He tried to grope his way to the table, so that he could sit, before he fell. He could not see; he could not feel; he tried with numb fingertips to find something, and found Merlin. 

Merlin had tried to be respectful of the fact that Arthur did not want to be coddled; he was not the sort of friend one took soothingly into their arms, and rocked with tender empathy, and lovely back strokes. He had stood with a frightful helplessness as he took Arthur out of the coat, and folded it. He had stood with a frightful helplessness as Arthur tried to be brave, and could not. He caught him now, as Arthur collapsed forward, short of the table. He had thought to ease him into the chair, and take off his boots, and stoke the fire. He had thought not to witness this purging, as well as he could. He was conscious of embarrassing Arthur. 

But Arthur held onto him. He was only half-standing; his knees were not quite under him. His legs were not quite useful to him. He sobbed in a way that frightened Merlin. There is a kind of weeping that is nearly murderous, and seems as if the host could not possibly survive it. Arthur was in the grip of it. It seemed there could be nothing inside of him when it finished, if it finished.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, with similar brokenness, and held the wet face to his shoulder. He kissed the side of Arthur’s head, and the top of it. He held the trembling body with the strength that had left the arms Arthur draped in a slack way about him, wherever they happened to land. 

He held them both like that for a long time, and then when it seemed Arthur’s knees were no longer up to standing, even with assistance, he got him to the bed, and wrestled off his boots, and laid him back into the pillows, as if he were a child. 

Arthur was completely fagged out. He let Merlin arrange the covers round him. He let the kind hands ease his head back onto his favourite pillow. He roused only when Merlin stepped back from the bed; somewhere there was strength enough to reach up for the skinny wrist, and hold it in crushing fingers, so that it could not leave him. “Are you going?” Arthur asked in a voice he did not recognise. He was like a sick child, who does not understand the difference between mere illness and death; he has seen both, and conflated them. He was terrified to be left alone, in the bed, where anything might find him. 

“I was just going to add some more wood to the fire,” Merlin whispered, stroking the fingers round his wrist; he did not try to prise them off.

“Leave the fire. Just...stay.”

“I won’t go anywhere you don’t want me to, Arthur.”

Good, good. Then stay, right here, endlessly, Arthur thought, but had already got out everything he was capable of. He fell asleep, holding the skinny wrist in cold terror.

  
  
  


Arthur woke with his head on someone’s thigh.

He was naturally startled by this discovery; he did not take people into his bed. He jerked back to determine the owner of the thigh. 

Merlin had grown tired of kneeling on the floor, and settled himself, carefully, with propriety, on top of the covers, at the edge of the bed; he had propped himself against the headboard, and succumbed somewhere in the night to his own exhaustion. 

Arthur was of a mind to kiss the sleeping face, and touch the flushed cheeks. He had confronted the magnitude of his hatred for Uther last night, and now had got to confront the magnitude of his love for Merlin. He had the same tiredness of any who have wept themselves dry, and did not have the energy to lie to himself. He loved Merlin more completely now, perhaps in a way he couldn’t when Uther had lived. He looked at him in the grey morning, and was overcome. He was raw with his loss, and cognisant of how unpitying the small lives of mortal men, who could be taken at any moment. It seemed to him, in having lost Uther, that he must lose everything, not in some far year, but immediately. For a moment he was convinced by the sudden fantasy that Merlin would not wake, and put up his hand, trembling, to check his breathing.

When he had found it regular against his fingers, Arthur lay back with a sigh, and shut his eyes. He crept with a halting tentativeness back onto the thigh, to be at peace, temporarily, fleetingly.

The sun came with great hesitation into the room, with some soft apology in its quickening gold. Probably it had caught the general tone, and was careful where to tread. It touched the two heads, the one sleeping, the other sleepy, with great and tender care.

Merlin woke gently to it, and felt the unstirring head in his lap. He heard in the cadence of Arthur’s breathing that he was awake. He saw in the reddish light that morning had come through the long night with the enduring persistence of its ilk. 

“You’re king, Arthur,” Merlin said, in a voice that was not yet quite sure of its state of wakefulness. He unfolded his arms, and put both his hands into Arthur’s hair. For a moment he was shy before the thought of it, and then he took out one hand from the soft strands, and rubbed Arthur’s cheek with his thumb. 

“Yes,” Arthur replied, in a careful way. He was trying to decide how to reciprocate. The thumb on his cheek made him sentimental, and he was not entirely sure how to express the sentimentality.

“You’re ready.”

“No, I’m not. But I have no choice.”

“And you’ve got me.” Merlin was giving Arthur the chance to ridicule him. He thought it ought to help, a little.

But Arthur said to him instead, the way he could only in moments of great gravity, with mortal peril at full bay, “That, Merlin, means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  
  
  


In the original source which we have found it our duty to challenge, there was a chapter devoted to the coronation. This was not unjust. As you may recall, Uther was an old man, and it did him in, and Arthur, who was still Wart, was passing sorry for his friend King Pellinore, who dripped great tears off the end of his nose; but there his feelings on the matter ended. So the coronation was indeed like a birthday or Christmas, and many were the presents, and the requests for assistance in the removal of unruly bottle stoppers, seeing as how he had got so splendid at pulling swords out of stones. 

But we should find it gauche. And anyway, there was the mourning period to consider, and the bits of dead people running about, causing a fuss. We shall come to them in a moment. The fact of it is there was no mixture for distemper, or cough mixture, or the white leather jesses, and certainly no gown of pine martens. (He did have a yew bow, seven feet long, from a peasant called Little John, and nearly threw out his back trying to draw it.) Arthur was four days into his mourning period, which is nowhere near long enough to even consider the coronation, except perhaps a tiny concession to the fact that it must be very well-fed, and Cook would need to start some time in advance, to have her menu in order. He was dining in his room, with Gwen, because they had both a new quietness inside them, to which they sometimes retreated when ordinary dining companions might consider it prudent to keep up a spirited small talk. It was the sort of aloneness which does not desire true isolation, and wants to know it can put out a hand, and find another to take hold of. They were both the ideal interlocutor of the other, and chewed without disrupting the other’s contemplations. Occasionally Gwen smiled at him, when she thought he needed to be uplifted. Arthur, we regret to say, was quite ignorant of this, and did not realise how much it must have hurt her, whilst she was still in love with Lancelot, not in the blurred way one loves something that is gone, and having faded from living earth, requires that its devotees adjust their sensations accordingly, but as if he were still here, and was still solid, so that she had to remember again, each moment, that he was not. At one minute he seemed to exist in the way that Merlin existed, who was close enough to be touched, and could be touched, if she desired, which seemed such a simple thing that it could only be a matter of going off to find Lancelot, who was somewhere in the citadel. I do not think we can describe how it was, to discover, over and over, that he was not anywhere in the citadel, nor beyond it. The world is unforgivably boundless, when one has lost something precious in it.

Merlin was topping up Arthur’s ale when he suddenly jerked his arm, and splattered the contents of his jug on Arthur’s sleeve. This was not uncommon, and would have been more startling if he had  _ not  _ spilled something, and finished the pour with great elan. But he did not usually afterward drop the jug completely, and swoon. 

He smacked his forehead against the table on his way to the floor; Gwen cried out; Arthur half-caught him before he could reach the floor, and sat inelegantly holding him with a hand under each armpit. 

They got him laid out on the rug before the fire; he was blinking. He was not cogent. He stared up in a fuzzy sort of way as Arthur knelt to the right of him, and Gwen to the left. Gwen touched his cheek, and pulled back her hand suddenly, and looked with frightened eyes to Arthur. “He’s cold. I’ve never felt anyone so cold.”

“Fetch Gaius,” Arthur ordered, and pulled the skins off his bed, so he could fling them haphazardly over Merlin. He had never made his own bed, and certainly never tucked in anyone, nor been tucked in himself, except when he was sick, and then quite unaware of it. He left out Merlin’s feet, and did up the covers round his neck so that Merlin nearly choked. 

“Arthur,” Merlin rasped; he was still only half-conscious. The skins did not seem to help; the fire did not seem to help. Arthur rubbed vaguely where he thought Merlin’s arms probably were, and stopped after a moment, as that didn’t seem to be helping either, and he felt awkward. “Arthur, something terrible is about to happen.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Merlin. It was only your head you hit; nothing to concern yourself with there.” 

“No--no, Arthur, there was a woman--”

“Yes, Gwen, she’s gone to get Gaius. You’ll be all right. Just lie still and be quiet. I know that’s an incredible request for you, but for once let’s pretend you’re a proper servant and you do as you’re told.”

“No, not Gwen. Arthur--”

At this moment the fire snuffed out. It was not particularly dramatic; it simply gave up. There was nothing momentous in it. Probably Arthur would have cursed a bit, and with noble suffering started his own fire, as if it weren’t beneath him. But then it was that the candle he had left on the dinner table, and the one on the table beside his bed with noiseless gasps extinguished, and when they had gone it seemed they had taken something critical out of the room, out of the castle, and now there lay only a sinister darkness. Of course the usage of ‘sinister’ implies there was something in it, so you may not be entirely surprised at what next transpired, but certainly Arthur was, and if you are to insert yourself into his boots for a moment, I’m sure you can find it within you to be sympathetic. After all, we often expect something nasty of a good gloom which has gathered in all the unfavourable bits of the room; but scarcely do we shrug upon actually meeting it. 

Arthur went instinctively for the sword on his bed. Before he could reach it, there was a terrible shriek he felt in his very marrow. And through the wall, there suddenly appeared a misty form that upon first glance was human, and upon second was not. We cannot call it a soul; for even in our dim understanding of the human consciousness it was certain there was not anything like that left in the black eyes. 

It made a harrowing dash at him. There was no evading it; even he was not fast enough for that. But Merlin, still lying prone on the floor, had got one of his hands free, and from it leapt a gush of fire that surged to catch it mid-air, in the midst of its pounce. It vanished with the sort of howling we can only describe as hair-raising, in the most literal sense. Arthur’s arms, which had with their animal instincts sensed the incorrectness of the thing, were full of a nervous bristling. 

In the lower town, the people began to scream.

  
  
  


There was of course a handy deus ex machina for situations like this. That is to say, the Great Dragon knew nearly everything, and could advise upon it, if it was not too injurious to the little men, to know too much of their waiting destinies. Merlin took Arthur to see him. 

“Arthur Pendragon,” he boomed; he was a little delighted, though he did not show it. It was a bit like meeting a celebrity whose handsomeness the cameras had actually downplayed.

Arthur had never been taught how to diplomatically address a dragon. He bowed. Then he said something like, “The honour is...honourable. Yes. Well. Merlin?”

“Oh! Arthur, Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah, Arthur.”

“I believe, young warlock, I already said that.”

“You have a dragon,” Arthur said. He made his thoughtful face, which Merlin privately thought made a bit too much use of his lips, which Arthur twisted this way and that, till they finally puckered out to a ridiculous degree, and made him look what it is now politically incorrect to say. (It was not a private thought; Merlin had shared it with Arthur many times, but probably he had forgot it on account of this meeting, and the rampant spirits of the dead and their restless havoc.)

“ _ I  _ don’t have a dragon, Uther had a dragon, which he locked up here during the Purge, and ever since I came to Camelot, I’ve been...consulting with him.”

“Consulting.”

“Which I assume you have come to do now, young warlock?”

Arthur pushed Merlin out of the way. “Camelot is under attack, and I must know how to save my people.”

“You are plagued by the Dorocha, young Pendragon. They are spirits with unfinished business who have escaped the world beyond our own. You cannot defeat them; you must heal the rift in the veil between our worlds.”

“A rift?” Merlin asked.

For a moment the Great Dragon made an expression like a man; he did not know how it was he ought to deliver the news. It was the sort of news one sometimes did not deliver at all, for a selfish peace of mind. It is anxious to have to speak ill of a loved one. “Morgana has torn the veil between our world and the next, and released the Dorocha. You must go to the Isle of the Blessed, and sacrifice whoever is so willing, in order to heal it.”

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” Merlin said. He had seen the look on his face, and anticipated his feelings, and put aside his own hurt in order to address Arthur’s. He was an old hat at putting aside his own hurt, Merlin. There was once he could not do it; but that is yet to come.

“I will gather my men.” Arthur put his hand in a kingly way on the pommel of his sword. 

He must have known how perilous the coming journey, and how great the risk, but it is in the young to be ignorant of the bad things they know, so they may carry on. 

Arthur turned back once, as they were going up the stairs. The Great Dragon had a ponderous eye fixed upon him. He was curious how it was that such small creatures fit so very much inside of themselves. “How do I free you?” Arthur asked, and the Great Dragon blinked. He had not foreseen this question. It took him a moment to find his voice.

“No ordinary weapon can break my chains. You must go to the Lake of Avalon, and speak to the Sidhe of a sword called Excalibur.”

Arthur looked far up at him with a firm jaw. He was a little thinner, where grief had worn him away, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The hair had got a little unruly, tussling with spirits. We can say for all of this he was nevertheless magnificent. If Chretien de Troyes can say it of Enide, certainly we can say it of Arthur: He was beautiful, for Nature in making him had turned all her attention to the task. Nature herself had marvelled more than five hundred times at how she had been able to make such a beautiful thing just once, for since then, strive as she might, she had never been able to duplicate in any way her original model. This was as the Great Dragon saw it. And he thought, how much less fair this cold world, when Arthur Pendragon went out of it.

“I swear to you, you will be free. You have my word.”

This was not to be his last discourse with the Great Dragon. 

But certainly it must have felt like it. There was a finality to it. Sometimes a story tests its bonds when in its final throes, though still it has a bit to go on, and must, however poor the ending. 

  
  
  


Merlin had elected to die, because he knew Arthur was planning on doing it himself. This was, for reasons already illustrated, unacceptable. When it was that Arthur said to him, “Merlin, I will not be returning from the Isle of the Blessed. I need you to go the Lake of Avalon, and to retrieve the sword Excalibur,” Merlin did not say he would be getting his own damn sword, on his own damn time; but certainly he gave him a bitchy look, and urged his horse on ahead, without falling off. He was making a point.

At sunrise they had set out from the citadel, half a dozen of Arthur’s best men, in company of which was Gwaine, who had wanted to stay with Gwen, and to go with his lads; but as he could not do both, he had decided upon the more dangerous option, with the most lunkheads. Gwen could be depended upon to not die, whereas both Merlin and Arthur regularly tried their best to do it, and could not be trusted to their own devices. Their own devices would get them murdered in one another’s arms, possibly at one another’s hands. 

One supposes you must want a few details of the journey. It is entirely fair. If our pen has failed in the justice which ought to have been done to Lancelot du Luc, who was indefinable, surely it can be expected to find better footing in unfeeling Nature, which has no regard of its own plumage, till we have come along to paint it. A tree is easy enough to describe; a heart is not. 

But we have got to prepare you for something. If you must distract yourself with how the blooms have come out in fat infancy, to be ahhed over, and the sky shaken off its winter mantle, in exchange for a lighter one, with more trimmings, that is fair, and understandable. But we have got to set down our pen for a moment. We have got to gird up our loins, and many other trite sayings besides. Arthur could not die, because it was not yet his time, and Merlin could not die, because it was never his time. So we must say good-bye to another dear friend.

Whether Gwaine knew toward what he rode, we cannot say. But he must have had some inkling. He always knew, in the craven parts of every man that first scent death, that in company of Merlin and Arthur, there was always quite a good chance one would not go home to his bed. He had accepted this as a knight, and as a friend. One could hardly hold up his fear as if it were any reason whatsoever to not follow his mates into hell. 

In the dying day, when night was soon to flower, and send out its horrors, he joked from his saddle as if he were unaware that there should ever be anything but sun. He said to the knight on his left, “You mean you’ve never unseated a man with your lance? Surely you joust!” and to the one on his right: “What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole that it’s often poked before? A key, ye’ feckin’ miscreant.”

On warming his feet at the campfire, he caught one of his stockings on fire, and hopped about like a madman, trying to beat out the flame, and to keep his bare foot off the ground. It will be said it was a bit of oafishness, which was only to be expected from him: but he had caught the grim look on Arthur’s face, and dropped it in on purpose. 

He had a store of naughty lyrics which he brought out to great effect as the woods shrieked round them, and they stood, back to back, with torches in either hand. He would sing at the top of his lungs and thrash about with his torch, and often was caught out whilst warbling about a sailor who had got it into the wrong hole of his lass, or the man from Kent, whose cock was so long it was bent, so it was that once one of the younger knights, jabbing at the spirit which had come for his life, suddenly burst out in a blubbering sort of laugh, and felt altogether he had not got too bad a deal. 

Merlin did not laugh. He did not find it a matter of mirth, that he should soon have to leave the silly puns, or the burnt stockings, which having been roasted smelt only marginally less disturbing than Arthur’s after a long patrol, when combat had necessitated the skipping of his bath. He sat next to Gwaine at the fire in quiet moments, and ate moodily from his bowl. He stared at Arthur in a besotted way, when Arthur was not looking, and when Gwaine was. Probably it was the staring that tipped off Gwaine; it had a sharp edge to it. It was a farewell. Merlin was looking in a way to fill himself, as if taking a last few gulps of air. 

It was from then on, Gwaine decided, his personal responsibility to see to Merlin’s propensity for eejitry. He did not draw the line at toilet breaks, though Merlin certainly tried to make him. He followed him into the woods, and stood with crossed arms, as if anyone were about to go out of his way to witness  _ that _ , Arthur complained, whilst following at a more polite distance. He had not seen the looks; but he was well-acquainted with Merlin’s propensity for eejitry. 

They sometimes sheltered in abandoned huts, and lay awake all night whilst the dead tapped about the walls, and rattled the crockery, and screamed the screams of the absolute nutter. They played ‘Never Have I Ever’ with nervous good humour, and that was how they found out Arthur had never bedded a servant, whilst Gwaine had had three, simultaneously. 

They were most of them young, and terrified. But they did not falter. They lost their youngest at the edge of Sherwood Forest, and wrapped him in Arthur’s own cloak, and buried him in silence. 

But we must get on with it. Certainly they did, without unnecessary lingering, or tears, though afterward Arthur was very quiet, and sat away from his knights, as far from the fire as could be considered reasonable or sane. 

In the ruins of a castle where they had stopped to rest, and to eat, they had at last to face something worse than the poor youth in his king’s cloak. They proceeded with their torches, and felt relatively confident in their shelter, which is to say that they assumed disaster had gathered at each black corner, and was gleefully rubbing its hands. 

Indeed it came, for Arthur, who was engaged in trying to relight Sir Kay’s torch. 

And it was Merlin who leapt in front of it.

You must understand: no one had yet withstood the touch of the Dorocha. So he fell in a stiff sort of way, in an alarming stillness; and the frost settled on him as if he were only something upon which impersonal winter could alight, till the sun had coaxed it away.

Gwaine and Arthur were both simultaneously aware that he was dead. Arthur made a noise humans will never be able to name; we cannot bear to name it. He went down on his knees. 

It was not that Gwaine had some hope Merlin was alive; he was not acting rationally. There was simply a piece of him which said to go, and so he did. He ran out into the middle of the room, where Merlin had fallen, and took him up in his arms. The jacket crackled against his chest. The hair made a soft crunching under his hand. He was past weeping. Sometimes we are inconsolable in a way that tears cannot mend. 

And then the eyes opened, slowly, under the weight of the rime on their lashes, and Gwaine, no longer beyond weeping, pounded Merlin on the shoulder a few times, with a gesture which Arthur made when his knights had fought in accordance with their training, and made him proud. He wiped at his nose. “Arthur, he’s still breathing,” he called back, and Arthur suddenly found in himself something that was like life.

So Merlin was coddled through the night, with everyone’s cloak, and not a few coats heaped on top of him, and the entire company in a tight semicircle about him, till morning eased through the arrow slits, and brought them all, with varying starts, from the fen of half-slumber.

“We’ll need to turn back,” Arthur said as he oversaw the carrying of Merlin out to the horses, and the lashing of his limp body to the saddle.

“Sire,” said Sir Leon, with not a little reluctance. “We can’t. Not for one man. Camelot will perish. We must reach the Isle of the Blessed.” 

Arthur did not like this advice. In fact he was highly offended by it. It was not unsound, but this was  _ Merlin _ , who was not an ordinary man, and was not beholden to things like logic, or the greater good. Arthur could have sacrificed himself for the sake of Camelot, and he could have sacrificed any of his men, though he carried their deaths, all of them, for the rest of his life, and beyond that. He could not sacrifice Merlin.

Gwaine solved it for him, by interjecting himself before an argument, or an outright fight could manifest. He said, “I’ll take him back to Camelot. I’ll take him home, to Gaius. He’ll be safe with me, Arthur.” And he rested his hand on Arthur’s forearm, so the weight of this could be felt, undeniably. 

So Arthur had to say good-bye, whilst his men, who had finished their own fussing, and laid down their warmest gear, retreated to a respectable distance, because they were large, and burly, but they had not been raised by wolves. They did not know the whole of it; but they knew Merlin was beloved. And since everyone has given up something beloved, they knew the pain of it, and went to mill about in the ruins, as if they had not noticed, but rather had all chosen to take a walk simultaneously, without any prior arrangement.

“Arthur,” Merlin rasped as Arthur tightened the cinch on his horse, and got himself stubbornly ignored. There was an argument in his voice; Arthur was wary of it. He was not wary of being swayed; he was wary of hearing the slow rocky voice once more, tired in the way that dying men are tired. “Arthur, you have to take me with you.”

“You’ll die, Merlin,” he replied, still focused on the cinch. He was deciding how honest to be. He took a long breath. His repression would have to kindly go off to fuck itself; this was a permanent farewell. He was not to see the smile again, or wake to the infernal puttering. It was hardly bearable. It was not imaginable. “You’ll die, and I couldn’t bear that.”

He took off his glove, and touched the cold cheek gently. “Be well, Merlin.”

For a moment it seemed he would be unable to stop touching Merlin’s face. He put his thumb on the icy chin, and on the bottom lip, briefly, where he might have kissed it, if he had more time, if he were not frightened, even now, if there were less eyes, if there were more understanding. He was terrified to feel a teardrop on the end of his nose; he dashed it away with his gloved hand, so he could not feel it.

“Arthur, don’t send me away,” Merlin croaked, and gave him back his composure. 

“Can’t you ever do as you’re told,” he said, without a question mark in it, and stepping back, patted the bony shoulder, leaving his hand there as Gwaine sensed it was time for him to get on with it, and came respectfully out of the bush into which he had ducked to relieve himself, ostensibly.

“He’s dying and still disobeying me,” Arthur pointed out, with a little fondness; it had fought its way through the despair. His eyes were once more clear; he had sniffled a little, discreetly, whilst Gwaine was crashing out of the brush. 

“That’s our Merlin,” Gwaine replied as they stepped away to have their own private moment. 

“Take care of him, Gwaine. And yourself.” Arthur was struck by a sudden good regard for Gwaine; he loved him, only it had been obscured a bit, by his jealousy, and the easy way in which Gwaine could be Merlin’s friend, whilst he struggled, and had to deny it. He knew the stocking had been charred on purpose, and felt terribly sentimental about it. He held out his hand.

Gwaine with solemn face took him hard into his arms. Arthur was not accustomed to being embraced, especially in a way that disturbed his ribs, which were conscious of their safety, and found it endangered. If he had got the time to react naturally, he might have leapt backward, and stared at Gwaine in an alarmed way. But Gwaine was prepared for that sort of rubbish, and squeezed him, and Arthur, feeling how important a hug it was, and being sorry to leave it, squeezed him back. 

They clapped one another on the shoulder when they parted, to reaffirm their manliness.

And then Gwaine, mounting up, took in his hand the lead of Merlin’s horse, and Arthur watched with his best stoic face whilst they rode out, and were gone.

  
  
  


It was not done, of course. 

Gwaine took the horses at a trot away from Arthur, who did not turn, till he could no longer see them; and even longer after that. He had to stop soon afterward by a small stream. It seemed to him even this soft jouncing of the horses, who were going as carefully as they could, was detrimental to Merlin, as if the last bits of life could be jostled out of him. He took him off the horse, and laid him on the ground beside the stream. 

He looked down at Merlin with a great love in his eyes. He was not, like Arthur, afraid that any tears should fall. He was not wary of his voice breaking. He was not afraid to put his head against Merlin’s, and ask him not to die. We can never say if this is what prompted it. Perhaps they had merely shown up to fulfill their part of the Destiny; or perhaps they had got their hearts broken, by the tone in which Gwaine said, “Don’t you be dying on me, Merlin.”

Whilst they sat together by the stream, Merlin draped in a boneless way over Gwaine’s lap, with Gwaine’s hands on his face, the stream began, suddenly, to emit a gush of bubbles. This was unusual under the best of circumstances; it was morseo when one considered that the bubbles had faces in them, and were possessed of the power of speech.

“Sir Gwaine,” one of them said to him, and put him into a mad dash for his sword.

“We mean you no harm. We are the Vilia, spirits of the brooks and streams. The tear in the veil has released spirits both good and bad; but this cannot continue.”

“I shouldn’t worry; we’ve a friend riding to take care of that this moment. Stubborn man; I have every faith in him.”

“King Arthur,” the woman said, with the sort of all-knowing wisdom which can only be found in something like a disembodied head with a lovely voice, “will need your help. Both of you.”

“Sorry, but my friend here is dying. I have to get him home. That isn’t negotiable, whatever the spirit world has going on.”

“You needn’t worry,” she told him, and underneath his hands, Merlin began to glow. It was becoming; Gwaine thought Arthur should have liked to see it. There was a slow receding of the blue in his lips, and the frost in his lashes, as if summer had stolen into him, quite unnoticed, and set about waking his sleeping breath. He blinked in the way of enchanted princesses who have come back into the world. “Arthur,” he said, clearly, and sat up with a jerk. 

So the spurs were set to their horses, and they plunged at great speed into the darkening wood, whipping up the poor things in a way Merlin normally never allowed, and would have to make up for later. They reached the banks of the Isle in good time, and dismounted, dramatically, by leaping off before the horses had quite finished their stride, so that they carried on, riderless, almost to the edge of the waterline.

There is not much to tell you about the Isle of the Blessed. It was dim, and misty, and exactly the sort of place which seemed conducive to blood sacrifice. The water round it plashed about in a muted sort of way, as if afraid of drawing too much attention to itself; and this was understandable, upon first glimpse of the ferryman who poled his visitors between the grassy bank, and the island which rose, quite by surprise, out of the midst of the lake, like something which has lurked about in the shadows waiting for just the moment to pop out and frighten the poor wit (and tits) out of you. He had the sort of countenance which handily discourages drawing attention to oneself, even if you were as innocuous, and as natural, as water. Gwaine tried to make small talk with him; it was a tough crowd. They glided out to the island in a weary silence, the countenance having put even Gwaine off his chatter. In the distance, there was the horrible shrieking of the wandering dead, who I suppose never like to be quiet about it. They had been singular wailings, during their journey, and now were a chorus; it may seem redundant to say it was unearthly--the restless dead are hardly terrestrial. But ill does the English tongue speak the slow shuddering of the cold which was like an early frost come to their hearts. The chorus touched their spines with all the menace of a spider feeling about for its victim. It seemed not a sound, but a stealthy dismay which crept, inexorably, into their chests, and their throats, and which could not be stopped. It was that daunting feeling when one is just on the verge of a panic, and must wait, helpless, for it to surge over them.

From the shore the Isle of the Blessed seems a spindly thing, with some weeds, and the ruins which have fueled them, but on stepping onto its marshy grounds, Merlin and Gwaine found it was much larger, and by foot would require at least a day to cross. As it was getting on toward sunset, and they had no torch, Merlin called up a light in his hand. Gwaine had seen his magical display in the throne room, and accepted it, as he did every bit of Merlin; so it was not commented upon.

But there was a light in the ruins nearest them, which were not the precise ruins they needed, as the veil was kept on the other side of the Isle, so that no one who wasn’t perfectly serious about the whole thing could reach it by accident, or intrepid trekking, but they were near enough, especially as they contained Arthur, and Arthur was stupid, and still planning to go on with sacrificing himself.

Merlin snuffed the spell. He thought about making a grand entrance, to teach Arthur a lesson about leaving him behind. But he was too eager, and spoilt it by rushing in, and scaring the living bejaysus out of poor Sir Leon, who nearly skewered Merlin on his sword.

Then all the knights had to circle round him and clap him on the back, and sometimes even to hug him, if they were not quite as correct as Sir Leon. Merlin was a sort of honourary member, like a police dog with the same essential duties, who got all the good bits of their lunches. This whilst Arthur stood back, trying not to look overjoyed while he was in the act of leading.

“There’s just no getting rid of you, is there?” he asked when the knights had at last cleared off, and it was only the two of them, at the edge of the fire. 

“No,” Merlin said, smiling at him in a soppy way.

And Arthur smiled back in the same way, and said, putting an arm round his shoulders to lead him back into the light, “It’s good to see you, Merlin.”

  
  
  


They were the last awake. The fire was sufficient to keep out the spirits, or else they had congregated round the veil. Here it was nearly bearable, with their shoulders touching, and the flames popping on the logs. Merlin had worked a subtle spell, to muffle the sounds of the screaming, so it was all now a distant background, and could not impress itself enough on the crackling of the fire to outmatch it. 

He was sick with the need to blurt out that Arthur did not need to sacrifice himself; Camelot did not need Merlin. There was a servant for every two lords. He could have argued (though he would have been incorrect to do so) that there were a thousand Merlins, and only one Arthur; and the one could be replaced, quickly. But then there would be a row, and he did not want a row on their last night. Instead, he said, “How can you have never...you know...with a servant?”

“What?” Arthur poked the fire and looked at him with the caution of somehow who is witness to a mental break. 

“You said you’d never bedded a servant. Remember? While we were playing that game, and Gwaine said--”

“I know what Gwaine said.” Arthur stirred about in a great discomfort. He shifted round on the ground, as if finding a more comfortable position, with less pebbles, could somehow improve upon the fact that Merlin was trying to talk about sex with him. It is touchy to be asked about your past conquests, and to be thinking of their bounciness in the presence of your repression. 

“So why didn’t you ever…? Every other nobleman has, from what I hear round the servant’s quarters.”

“Because, Merlin, that would be taking advantage of someone who is not in the position to refuse me, even if they wanted to. A maid isn’t about to refuse the prince who employs her. It’s a power imbalance. It would be wrong to exploit it.”

Merlin was quite sure he loved Arthur even better. He said, because Arthur was slightly red, and very fixated on the fire, and it was unthinkable to address the things which really needed to be addressed, “What if they made it really obvious they wanted to? I mean, if they wanted it, no mistake, indisputably, then couldn’t you--”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, with a wry little note in his voice, “are you propositioning me?”

“What? No!” The tips of Merlin’s ears reddened, which was revenge enough for Arthur.

“Good. Because I am not going to be caught by my knights mid...coitus with  _ you  _ of all people, whether I am to die tomorrow or not.”

It brought it back to Merlin. He suddenly choked on it. He looked into the fire, and lost the joy of teasing Arthur. Arthur knew in the sudden tension of him that the row was upon them, whether they liked it or not.

“Arthur.”

“Merlin, don’t start.”

“Why does it have to be you? Camelot needs you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Arthur said, and hunched his shoulders, looking just as fixedly into the fire as Merlin, so they would not have to look at each other. “I have failed Camelot, in every way that matters, when it needed me most. I failed Morgana, I failed Lancelot. I have been king scarcely a week, and already my people are dying, they are frightened, suffering. No. I don’t know what will happen, but Camelot needs a ruler who will not let it down. And perhaps one will step in to fill my void.”

“We were suffering when Uther was our king,” Merlin replied, quietly. “We were frightened, and dying, and you were our hope.” They were looking at one another now. Arthur felt a quivering in his stomach. Merlin had put his hand round the point of Arthur’s chin, and held it in place, so that Arthur could not find a refuge in the barrenness beyond the fire, where the wind slowly whistled. “Arthur--”

“Merlin, it’s my duty. I know you wouldn’t know anything about that, since you’ve never met an order you haven’t  _ blithely  _ ignored, but this is what I can do for Camelot. If giving my life for my people is the only thing I can do for them, then that is a price I am more than willing to pay.”

“It isn’t your duty to  _ die _ , Arthur.”

“Then what am I to do? Offer someone else in my place? How about Gwaine? Or you? Do you think I could do that? Do you think I could stand aside, and let one of you, any of you, go to your deaths? For me?”

“What about me?”

“What about you? I know you’re an astounding lackwit, Merlin, but do you really think I could entertain that idea for even a second? Tempting as the idea of having an actual competent manservant is--” And here he stopped, and then suddenly, as if it had burst out of him after a long incubation, and was now raring alive, grabbed Merlin’s face in his hands. “Do you think I could bear that?”

“I mean, you have so much concern for what you can bear,” Merlin said, raspingly, holding Arthur by the wrists now, with the same unbreakable lock he had got on Arthur’s chin, “what about me? Arthur, do you really--” But here he was speechless. He did not have any language whatsoever for it. He surged forward, and kissed Arthur in a frenzy of clumsiness, trying to put his lips everywhere, without thinking first of the logistics, or whether anyone might wake; he held Arthur by the wrists, and then the neck, and finally the shoulders. He pulled him in, so that neither of them could go anywhere, except farther into the other. 

Arthur’s willpower in that moment was to be commended; he only kissed Merlin back a little. He was still conscious of his men sleeping nearby, and could not be reckless about it. He held himself very still whilst Merlin kissed the corners of his mouth, the tip of his nose, the bridge of it. This might have continued admirably, if Merlin had not made it back round to his lips. They both seized the other in their arms, and with a furious awareness that tomorrow Arthur was to die, sank into one another. There is no other description for it. They kissed, yes, and even with some skill; but it would be imprudent to present it like that, and to leave it. Arthur was nearly mad; he whispered Merlin’s name as if it hurt him to do so, and then went on, for just a moment, kissing him in the way that people gasp for air upon surfacing from a long dive. 

We are always ending this sort of thing too soon, we know; but it is the nature of their fate. 

Arthur pulled back, breathing hard. Merlin took him by the front of his mail, and tried to reel him back in, and was put off, with a hand on either thin shoulder.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and now he dug in his fingers, and looked into Merlin’s eyes with something wild in his own. “Tell me you aren’t going to do something stupid tomorrow.”

“Me? Something stupid? Never, Arthur. You know me.”

  
  
  


The tear, of course, was not so easily got at by any brave company, even this one, and had round it a flock of wyverns which meant to dissuade them; but as half of the knights volunteered themselves to mind the beasts, whilst the others went on ahead, this was not so bad. Arthur, Merlin and Gwaine reached it with no further distress.

There was a final obstacle, which was a woman and a large walking stick. This was the keeper, who was called the Cailleach. They eyed up one another for a moment whilst the tear shrieked and teemed behind her, and hurled into all its mad whirligig bits of pebble, and the industrious root vegetables which yet thrive, in the most barren of dire wastelands. She knew why they had come. She knew what they asked. She said, from the depths of her hood, which seemed two endless eyes, “So, Arthur Pendragon. You seek to heal the veil.”

He stepped forward with his hand on his sword. “I do. I give myself willingly, for the sake of my people.”

“Then step forth, through the veil. And know that you can never return. This is the price which the veil seeks.”

It was before Merlin could even cast his spell that Gwaine, standing placidly up to that moment on the other side of Arthur, suddenly drew his sword, and with a hollow  _ thock _ , brought it down on his head. Merlin in trying to catch him sprawled onto his knees, with Arthur limp in his arms, chin on his chest. He looked up for a moment into Gwaine’s eyes, and could not thank him; he struggled in letting out his breath, having got it down in a manageable way, and now not knowing what else to do with it.

Arthur was laid out gently. Gwaine had taken off his cloak, and bundled it under his head. Merlin did not know it, but he was giving them something to bury. He had bungled the edges of it, and got stew near the clasp, so that it was his, wholly; for it was beneath the dignity of any usual knight to leave carrot on his clasp.

“Well,” Merlin said, choking a little on it. He did not know how to say good-bye. He stuck out his hand.

It is not that everything happens for a reason: it is that it happens, and we find a way to give it meaning.

Gwaine had known what each of them planned, from the moment it was discovered from whence the Dorocha issued, and how they could be put back. They were not original eejits. 

He took Merlin’s hand now in a firm grip, smiling with a little pain in his heart as if something had gone through it. What had gone through it was the pair of them, the silly arses; and what terrible sorrow it was, to give it all up. He was not sorry for his life, which all men had to lay down eventually; he was sorry for the sweetmeats which Merlin would no longer pass sniggering up through the grate, on the hook he had lowered into the kitchen; he was sorry to miss the horror of Arthur’s breath, when they had passed out drinking, and woken next morning all in a tangle on the floor. It is all these little nonsense things, which we do not savour, and suddenly get misty about, so that we haven’t to contemplate the rest. He could not think that he was loved, and could be loved still; that is an unbearable thing. It is perhaps why Uther tried to stay, and why Arthur had not looked to either side of him, but stepped out with rigid purpose. 

“I’m sorry for this, Merlin,” he said, still gripping him by the hand, and then, before Merlin’s face could form fully into its confused expression, punched him in the chin. Merlin had something of a glass jaw, and Gwaine an excellent right hook; so he fell immediately, next to Arthur, and was still.

“You’ll be taking me instead,” he announced to the Cailleach, who had not blinked. He took off his sword, and laid it in final service next to his king, with something that was almost like ceremony, though it could not have been, if we know Gwaine. It seemed formal, because we must make it so; it is easier, far easier, to say good-bye in this way, as if it were official, and regulatory, as there never is any sniffling over a bit of red tape.

“Do you give yourself willingly to the veil, to make it whole, and to restore balance to the world of mortal men?”

“Yes,” he said, and there was never any hesitation in him. He was certainly frightened; he was certainly lonely. But he was not doubtful. We can say nothing else of his heart.

He looked back at the threshold of the veil, with just a step between him and it. 

This is not an advisable thing to do, when you are trying to let go; but he loved them both enough to do it, and go on.

  
  
  


In dismal spirits the sombre party came to the banks of the Lake of Avalon, to seek the mighty Sidhe.

You have heard that in London, there was a quiet churchyard with a sort of square in front of the church door; and in the square, an anvil, with a bright new sword. 

But this, as you must by now know, was not the way of it.

It was the Sidhe who kept Excalibur, in the centre of the lake, on an island which supported the anvil, and the patch of grass that flourished underneath it, and nothing else. It was not reachable by mortal vessel, and if any had tried, they would have seen it grow inexplicably no nearer, as if it moved in step with the boat. But the Sidhe were not stingy; and to anyone who requested a try at it, there was suddenly a line of stepping stones floating like our modern docks on the surface of the water, shimmering under its soft movements.

“It can only be removed by the true king of Britain, whose heart is worthy,” the leader of the Sidhe warned with a buzz of his wings.

“That’s hardly a fair test of a man; no one could pull a sword from an anvil, no matter his strength, or how worthy his heart,” Sir Kay blurted. He was not in the mood to be toyed with. They were all hungry, and weary, and aggrieved; and they wanted, with childish simplicity, to be home, and to lay warmly in their own beds.

Arthur, who in his own eyes was no king, but only a failure, who had lost his friends through unworthiness, knew with a sudden hotness in his throat that he had another promise to break. 

But Merlin, who had ridden soundlessly, at the tail end of the procession, inconsolable, alone, looked up now with red eyes, straight to Arthur, who had turned back from the lake, already knowing himself defeated.

“He can do it.” There was a rawness in his voice the others winced to hear. It was as if in listening to him they had to confront the nakedness of their own grief. He was a manifestation of it, and it hurt them to look.

He held Arthur’s eyes. He was not upright himself; he leaned on the horn of his saddle the way a wounded man holds himself after a mortal thrust. But it put Arthur straighter somehow. He felt something like iron come into his spine.

He walked out to the sword whilst his men respectfully waited for him to muff it, and give up. 

And there came the quiet fluting of the recorders, and the light of clear unblinding quality. He wrapped both his hands round the hilt, and shut his eyes.

And it came, singing, out as if from butter.

  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'He was beautiful, for Nature in making him had turned all her attention to the task. Nature herself had marvelled more than five hundred times at how she had been able to make such a beautiful thing just once, for since then, strive as she might, she had never been able to duplicate in any way her original model.' From Chretien de Troyes' Arthurian Romances, 'Erec and Enid'. The jokes are random internet finds.


	6. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had an interview Friday afternoon for a job I really want, so if you're enjoying this fic, send good job vibes my way. If you're not enjoying this fic, don't be a fucking asshole, send good job vibes anyway.
> 
> The final chapter is complete, I just need to edit it; I might actually get that done tomorrow if I have time, but at the very least, I'll have this completed by the end of next week.
> 
> 'Three other years passed by' is essentially a quote from 'TOAFK', though in the original six years have passed. ‘Across the purple wastes of evening’ is a direct quote from it. The final battle is based on descriptions of Arthur fighting the Saxons in 'The History of the Kings of Britain'.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

It befell in the time of Arthur Pendragon that there were two men, quite grown up now. And they had very little time left together; perhaps a good five years, but certainly no more.

Now you might be thinking, that cannot be, not already. But that is life. We are sorry to say we have no other comfort. We have dithered over it, and certainly stopped to smell the roses, and to describe them in turns of florid phrase which Hemingway, and our writing instructors, have bawdily discouraged. There is no putting off anything forever.

Here, then, is the last account of King Arthur of Camelot, and his golden court.  

It followed that after the death of Gwaine, Merlin banished himself from the lives of his friends. He was still a presence, peripherally, the way the dead leave behind an essence of themselves, and are felt in the spiritual mechanisms of us, which are trained to the supernatural, whatever our religious inclinations, or disinclinations. It is so that the living can do this too, if they are well loved enough, and leave our laundry neatly folded. There was a hint of Merlin, which could be felt if Arthur sat still enough at his desk, and concentrated very hard, like a big sop.

Gwen was not an adherent to that sort of romanticism, and thought it all very well to lock yourself up in a tower in a fit of poetic loneliness if you were in a book, but not when there were people who loved you. She had a good lie-in several mornings, and wept herself sick. Weeping is not an indictment of your courage; it has a functionality similar to that of the kidney, and gets out what means to poison us. So she found it perfectly acceptable, and wished Arthur would do it more often, but though he did sit with her in the evenings, and hold her handkerchiefs, and embrace her in his gawkish way, patting her head, he was stubbornly aristocratic about the whole thing. It was why she needed Merlin: it is better to weep in company. After the fourth or fifth time, it is no longer polite to wipe your nose on the sleeve of a friend’s tunic, if they have not used your own with similar familiarity.

They went to Gaius every day, and asked if Merlin might be ready to receive, and were gently rebuffed. Arthur could have fixed this with a firm order, and swept Gaius to the side; but then he would have disappointed him, and it was unendurable to be disappointing now, when he had done so much of it already.

So it was that he had to rule, and be patient. He had a nightly chess game with Gwen, and strategy sessions, for he had come to look on her as a sort of general which smelled far better than the usual fare, and was not nearly so free with their bodily emissions. It is much nicer to plot in a cloud of lavender rather than a cloud of dinner; the latter has only one fair steam, in its pot: and afterward its receptacles are far inferior distillers.

When the sun had got itself into difficulties, and was trying to die with some bit of dignity, in that ailing flame of day which makes everything more palatable, including the preceding fart joke, Arthur took out the boy Mordred into the courtyard, and played ball with him. If this seems somewhat unspecific, it is because mentions of ball games (of the non-pornographic variety) are limited in medieval texts, and we can only trace its English usage back to about 1200 or so, in this capacity. Whether or not this was a sort of football cannot be said for sure. It might even have been a thing like golf, but that seems a bit demure for a 25-year-old in possession of such muscular thighs. Probably it was something nearer to rugby, knowing Arthur. Regardless, when the knights joined in, there was a bit of slap and tickle of the athletics variety, to begin the festivities, and afterward several bleeding noses. The Knights of Camelot had acquired a new warrior by this time, and he was called Percival; you may recognise the name, but perhaps not the stature. Village gossip would have you believe he was at least eight feet; certainly no less than seven. Probably he was nearer to the mid-range of six feet, and it is simply that everything seemed larger, on account of the fact that his arms dwarfed Camelot’s king, and could easily have killed at least a medium-sized man, simply by falling on him. He went about in a strange sleeveless mail, so that his enemies knew they ought not to bother. Of course he was greatly in demand for these games, and could often be found with Mordred on his shoulders, sprinting toward the goal, with the boy clutching the ball in a desperate glee. There were usually at least six men hanging off him, trying to be at least a glancing annoyance.

Gwen was banned on account of her femininity, which would be crushed. But she had got some things to work through, and finally, having been emboldened by her recent losses, showed up one day in trousers, with her hair gathered back. Then they had got to go gently, and refrain from tackling, or beaning one another straightaway in the face. This went on, till one day she said, rather hotly (it was uncharacteristic of her; but we all act out a bit when we are aching), that she was not a child, nor any more breakable than any man, which is certainly true; but for some reason owing to the fragility of large and powerful creatures, which do not want to know there is any other large and powerful creature, they had all got it into their heads that a good drubbing with a sword is somehow equivalent (and in fact superior) to the act of disgorging an entire human, if a small one.

And then she pushed the face of Camelot’s handsome king, who had only just pulled a sword out of solid stone, into a mud puddle.

“Oh my God, Arthur! I’m so--I didn’t mean--I’m so sorry.” It had been done in the spirit of Gwaine, instinctively: for that is how we keep the dead, to perpetuate them in some way. Generally it is something small we hold onto, such as a book; but then he was a very fresh wound.

“Right,” said King Arthur of Camelot, ruler of Britain, and spit out the muck he had got in his teeth, and took her down with a flying tackle he had earlier employed against Sir Leon. She went down with a scream, and was dog piled like one of the team; and afterward they all came to an unspoken agreement, that she should be one of them, and if there was any concern that her slighter frame was about to be squished in an irreparable way, Percival was to remedy it by holding up a bicep, like a retaining wall.

This was all done in the courtyard, where the people could be fond about their sovereign mixing it up like one of the lads, and Merlin could watch from his window.

He did this sometimes, when he was a little less depressed, and thought it might be nice to look upon the sun. And then as if sensing that he had come, if distantly, into the event, Arthur looked up, and held his eyes. Merlin would then latch his shutters, and find something in the workshop with which to occupy himself. Sometimes Gaius would bring him soup, and beg him to speak, of anything; and he was like a shadow of himself, or perhaps a wraith; for there is nothing so hopeless in a shadow.

“Do you really think it’s best that he shut himself up in there alone, Gaius?” Arthur asked one day, having been barred again. Gwen had brought some fresh flowers, and left them on the bench. She was far less blunt with her affections, and did not rush them like a battering ram against poor Gaius, who was only trying to be respectful of what a finicky and complex thing is grief.

“No,” Gaius sighed. “But we must wait for him to come round himself, Arthur.”

We will mention the duration of Arthur’s patience, because it was impressive: it was nearly a month. He went about balancing the finances of the household, and training his men, and actually putting effort into his chess matches now, which before had been unnecessary, and beneath him. At first it seemed to him it could not go on forever; and then it seemed to him it could do nothing else.

What mad impulse sleeps in unsound breast? Certainly, we must answer, nothing reasonable, such as stealing up when Gaius had gone, and giving a tap at the door, to see if Merlin would admit him. No: when Arthur had tired of the lack of Merlin, he spit on his hands, rubbed them together for a good grip, and scaled the wall of the tower. Oh, unreasoning love, which makes asses of us all.

It is somewhat awkward breaking into one’s own home, but at least the police cannot be called. And if they are, you only have to be white for the whole snare to sort itself out equitably, with a minimum of gunplay. He was spotted by a few people milling about, but one of the benefits of monarchy is that you do not have to explain yourself. An elected official is beholden to the people, and their incredulity; but all the inherent rights and oddities of a bloodline are sacrosanct, since most of them can be explained by inbreeding.

He did not have a rose between his teeth or anything like that, but it was all very romantic, if we ignore the undignified way he had to cling with one hand to the ledge, whilst he tried with the other to open the shutters, and if we are furthermore politely unhearing of the language he used in accomplishing the task, which made three ladies within ear shot gasp, and one faint (probably it was only a coincidence, but he was quite naughty, and also inventive).

When he had got the censored censoring censored to censor censor _cock_ *, he pulled himself over the ledge, and collapsed on Merlin’s bed, which had no Merlin in it, but was the momentary habitat of a book that violated him in an unflinching way, without even paying for drinks. (*Of course this was meant in the way of the rooster or cockerel, since it is beneath the dignity of the aristocracy to use penis euphemisms in public. In private there is an abundance of meat puppets, pork swords, and tallywhackers, but unless one is Shakespeare, one cannot roll them pleasantly off the tongue in the presence of the peasants; and the crown has a certain decorum to uphold. If the aristocracy could put them into rhyming couplets, then it might be quite all right. But we do not want to encourage Arthur to more poetry.)

Having bashed his way into Merlin’s room to find there was no Merlin, he was now not quite certain what to do. He had thought at least to look attractive in a sweaty, masculine man sort of way, and give Merlin something to admire.

He had a nap in the scratchy bed, and woke to found Merlin staring at him.

“Did you climb in through my window?”

“No,” Arthur said with as much poise as he could summon, which was not much at all, as he was currently embracing Merlin’s pillow, because it smelled like his hair.

“Then why are you in my room? And why are the shutters broken?”

“It must be your shoddy workmanship, of course.”

“You put them up.”

“Merlin, I’m not here to take the blame for your raving incompetence.” He sat up, and tried to smooth down his hair.

“Then why are you here?” There was a fleshless quality about his voice. It was Merlin in tone only, and had no cadence. It was the sort of way a machine might imitate a voice, thinking that having heard the humans, it could approximate something like human emotion.

“Well, naturally I love you desperately, and miss you” was not at all a thing Arthur could say. He tried instead, “My armour isn’t going to polish itself, you know.”

“I’ve done all my chores,” Merlin said in the same voice, which was not a voice at all; it was only a sound which found its way round to human language, and deployed it well enough.

“You haven’t brought me my dinner.”

“I found somebody else to do it.”

They stared at one another for a moment. Arthur tapped his fingers nervously, uncertain which would be the most usefully fetching way to employ them. He was not certain what to do with a Merlin that did not blather at him, did not scold him for wrinkling the bed he had only just made, did not throw the laundry at him, did not call him most unroyal names. He thought, with a jolt, that losing Gwaine had done something permanent to Merlin, which of course it does, to any of us who have loved: but we cannot stop living in memoriam of anyone. We are not their headstone; and we must not conduct ourselves as such. Long do we all sleep, eventually, beneath cold marble, with the moss between our metatarsals. But we do not expect it of the hot-blooded, who stamp about with all the effervescence of their living limbs.

“Arthur, just get out,” Merlin said with a tiredness that was frightening. It was the sort of fatigue he heard in men who had given up, and set themselves to die.

Arthur panicked. He grabbed Merlin under his arm, and noogied him.

This was so unexpected that Merlin forgot he had a certain pallid suffering to maintain. He spluttered and waved his arms about, crying out, “Ow, _ow_ , Arthur,” plus some of the words we earlier had to suppress. He tried to punch Arthur in the head; this Arthur easily avoided, and securing his grip, said, going on with the noogieing, “Say ‘Arthur’s the best, and I’m a girl’.”

“No!”

“Say it.”

“ _No_!”

“That’s a direct order from your king.”

“You’re not a king, you’re a jackass,” Merlin protested, wheeling round the room, taking Arthur in circles with him, as though somewhere within the oval he was describing he’d find a bit where Arthur wasn’t so damn strong, and tittish.

There was something new in his voice. The absurdity of wrestling the king, in a manservant’s quarters, with the manservant’s head neatly under the king’s arm, as if it were an American football, or the bundle of swords which Percival carried to practice each morning, had startled a laugh out of him. He was let up, and half-smiled in a dazed way at Arthur, who felt something immense rise into his throat at the sight of it. “What the hell was that?”

“There. That’s what I was looking for,” Arthur replied, and gave a slow acknowledging nod to the smile, and returned it with one of his own, an embarrassing smile, which burst out of him of its own accord, and made him look silly, to anyone who is not in love, and doesn’t see what it makes of us. They stared at one another for a bit, as was their habit. Arthur said, finally, “I miss him, too, Merlin.” It was a mistake. The smile went out of Merlin’s face. He returned to the former weary habitation of his body, which now was only a thing that carried him around. He turned away to fold a blanket that did not need to be folded.

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. He did not make Merlin look at him. He did not require him to turn. He let the hands go on folding, folding, and felt the tendons shifting about beneath his fingers. “Merlin,” he said in the gentlest voice he had, which he dredged up from the place where he had fabricated his mother’s voice, for when he was young, and did not like to go to bed alone, without feeling loved. “You can’t keep punishing yourself because Gwaine died, and you didn’t.” It was nicely said, with a lot of heart in it; and then he rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not entirely insensitive to other people’s feelings.”

“Yes you are.”

“Not yours,” Arthur blurted out, and then stood in a cold sweat, for neither of them was about to die, or even in danger of an annoying wound, yet he had gone and said something perfectly maudlin, and now probably Merlin would expect them each to make a confession in some poetic manner. “Only because you’re a complete _pillock_ , and can’t keep anything off your face. I can’t believe you kept your magic secret even as long as you did.”

“Well, you are pretty thick. It wasn’t that difficult.” His insubordination brought some of the colour back into Merlin’s voice, and he set aside the blanket, with his back still to Arthur, who felt himself now in comfortable territory, where he could move freely, and set nothing amiss.

“You would be a proper judge of thickness, wouldn’t you?” He shook Merlin a little, and thought whether or not he should embrace him, and put his face into the place where Merlin’s neck sloped into his shoulder, and must be very warm. He thought it must be a very nice place.

He did not. But he was not entirely useless; he said, with much halting, till he had got his tongue round it, “Don’t let Gwen and I lose you too. Gwen would be devastated.”

“Gwen.”

“You know how girls are. You’re practically one yourself.” He clapped the shoulder. He was in difficulties for a moment; there was not any imminent death, so of course he could not kiss Merlin, or even stroke his hair. He clapped the shoulder again. “Anyway. As I said, my armour isn’t going to polish itself.”

“I already polished it.”

“It’ll need to be done again. It fell into some mud,” Arthur said, taking away his hand at last, and going to drop his armour into a puddle.

  
  


It would be wonderful if sadness was like something that has been broken, and only needs a bit of a jiggle to set it to rights. But of course it is far too complex a mechanism.

Arthur’s visit did not bring Merlin out of his tower. He was not suddenly himself. He ate alone, and read alone, and did not sleep. He sometimes cried into his pillow till he was sick; but those were the good nights, and did not happen very often.

But he sat at the window whilst ball was being played, and even smiled at the whooping of the players.

There were first fresh flowers in Arthur’s chambers, and then some of cook’s best pastries, which Merlin had stolen especially for Arthur, at great peril to himself; and after this Merlin’s shutters were sometimes open whilst the game was bellowing along, and after that they were always open, whilst the game was bellowing along. On his good days he waved whilst Gwen jumped up and down and called up to him, “Merlin!” with the same thrilled tone as if he were a celebrity, and on his better, he leant on the sill and called down to her, “Gwen!” with similar enthusiasm.

On his best, he would jeer Arthur, who with a heavy consciousness of Merlin’s eyes on him showed off like an idiot, passing the ball round his own teammates to himself, and crowing when he had got a goal, and chest bumping with Percival, which was nearly fatal, and then he had got to act like he was fine, though his organs were definitely shaken, and made an argument for acquiring a new host.

At last Arthur came into his rooms one evening, and found Merlin waiting with his dinner. And he was so stupidly happy that he blurted out, “Merlin!” with a disbelieving laugh, and went round to hug him.

It was nearly as good as one Gwaine might have done, and gave Merlin a quivering like tears in his throat. He leaned into Arthur, and let out a shuddering sigh. There was an intimacy in it that no frenzied kissing can contest. Sometimes just to be held in a passion of friendship is more romantic than any fevered clashing, and certainly there is less clean-up afterwards.

Arthur put him back at last, keeping his hands on Merlin’s shoulders. “You look better.”

“But not good, right?”

“No, I’m afraid your ears ruin any chance at that,” he said, and taking one in his hand, gave it a tug. “Have you eaten?”

Merlin made a mock stunned face. “Am I being invited to the royal table?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. “After all, I’m king now, you never know who might want to poison me. I could use an official taster. Eat up, Merlin.”

“You have an official taster.”

“But what if the taster wants to poison me?”

“So I’m the only one you trust to be properly poisoned in your place?”

Arthur pulled out a chair with great aplomb, but in a sarcastic way, so Merlin would not assume they were on a date, though Arthur was a perfect gentlemen on dates, and Merlin should only be so lucky. “Yes. Besides, I’ve already been poisoned on your behalf. Turnabout’s fair play.”

“What? The unicorn test? That doesn’t count.”

“It does too. I only drank it because you were too stupid to not drink it yourself.”

“What about the poison Nimueh put in your chalice, which your loyal, underappreciated manservant took because nobody could be bothered to listen to him?”

And so it went on from there, exhaustedly, because it was really a squabble over who loved the other better, and that was why it could not be settled.

  
  


The Great Dragon Kilgharrah had flown wild into the world, but it is not really freedom, to be alone. It might be a clever simulacrum of it, and for a while we can get on marvelously, pretending liberty is judged on the arbitrary boundaries by which we levy our kingdoms. To smell the sweet grasses beyond it, and taste its boisterous waters is plenty. We forget, when we are in it, and have got our families at our elbows, that home is not a ‘where’, it’s a ‘who’; and a similar mistake is made with freedom, which seems to us a simple concept, and so long as we are not fettered, and have before us unending roads, and untravelled lands, then we have tasted it. But a bard is in the business because he likes the free meals, and the ability to wax pettish about whosoever has wronged him. He has not set out with his pack on his shoulders because he likes to get blisters on his feet, and to wander in silent tracts with the blossoms lying down their sweet heads before him. He might like these, in the beginning; but though there be in deep forests a new comprehension of all our inner evolutions, and how the moss in quiet shadow puts down its fledgling lives, we cannot be sustained on them.

For Kilgharrah the world was like the deep forest, endlessly; and he swanned about it for a bit, feeling pleased with himself, and the span of his wings. But there was no one like him, and whilst that is all right if we can find someone open-minded, who doesn’t mind a little thing like being different, he could hardly sit down to tea with the deer in Sherwood, and ask whether or not they had read Aristotle’s ‘Poetics’, and what they had thought of it. This was not entirely on the deer, since he ate at least one of them a day, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t eat the rest as well, even after a discourse on Aristotle. One likes to think one’s literary debates could hardly take a cannibalistic turn, everyone being all very civil, and preoccupied with Tolstoy’s predilection for women’s moustaches; but of course at least a few of them have, and you can never be too careful.

It was getting on toward tea time (if there had been such a thing in the time of Arthur Pendragon) some weeks after his release when he set down in the courtyard of Camelot, and politely asked one of the guards to fetch the king. The guard, perhaps of poor hearing, did not catch his tone, and doing a grievous wrong to his trousers, ran away. There was some confusion after that. Sir Percival attempted to fight him bare-handed, and might have won, if Arthur had not come out of his council meeting to assure everyone there was only a little misunderstanding, and then the villagers had another chance to admire him, since he did not even put on his armour to face the beast, and was even glad of its presence. There were some skirmishes along the borders in those days, since Arthur was a young king, and word of his consideration of salamanders--and anyone behind on their taxes--had got round, and it seemed that perhaps he was one of those soft leaders who could be persuaded into reconsidering where his own lands ended, and his neighbour’s began, simply by fighting at him: it had never been seriously considered that Arthur might ride out himself, risking very few men, and taking on the skirmishers almost single-handedly, till the neighbours were getting thin on volunteers, and had to start drafting them, which always causes a kerfuffle. When the gossip went round that he was in possession of a dragon, everyone decided, unanimously, that they were pretty well content with their current holdings, thanks.

It was somewhat disconcerting, to see the king out conversing with a dragon, especially as he was only ever armed if he had come straight from training, and then he only leant casually against the wall of the citadel, one hand on the wall, and the other quite independent of his sword pommel. They liked to talk philosophy, and sometimes it got a bit hot, but usually they agreed, and had Merlin to mediate if there were any serious disagreements, which he generally did by taking the side of Kilgharrah, just to annoy Arthur.

He was besides cultivating mythical companions drafting a law on the legalisation of magic, which he had started to pen almost the moment Uther died, to distract himself, and because it gave him, in the midst of his grief, a sort of sharp pleasure, to do something for the people his father had wronged, and for Merlin in particular. It was a delicate thing; prejudice is not a solo act. It does not exist independent of a nation, and smoulder solely in its leader. For there to be any teeth in it, the people must believe in it; and the people are foolish, and easily led, and though it is nice to think that they can be as easily led to kindness, that is not the way of man: for hatred has a nice ring to it, and makes its bearer impressive. He doesn’t feel it like sadness, which crawls about impotent, till it has found something to motivate it. It is easier to be hateful than fearful; for in the former we are the aggressor, and in the latter we are its victim.

Arthur knew he could not wave his hand and legitimise the practice of magic; this was still his father’s kingdom. It was still his father’s council. He would have to coax it round, like a recalcitrant beast, of which he had trained many. In the meantime he did not outright forbid Merlin from practising magic before witnesses, which was the surest way of getting Merlin to do anything, but he did strongly discourage it.

“You can do it in my chambers. It’s not safe to do it elsewhere, Merlin, not yet.” This had a vaguely sexual ring to Merlin; but perhaps that was because Arthur had bent over to retrieve the pen he had dropped, and was waving about his backside quite alluringly, but ignorantly. Merlin looked away and tapped his fingers against each other.

“So nothing’s changed.”

“Well, one thing’s changed: you won’t be formally executed by the state for practising it. That doesn’t mean someone well-meaning won’t string you up themselves.”

“Well-meaning?”

“Someone who _thinks_ themselves well-meaning,” Arthur amended. “You have to remember, Merlin, it _has_ been used to a lot of evil ends. That’s the magic the people of Camelot have been exposed to. It isn’t just that Uther banned it: it’s that every sorcerer or sorceress with ill intent has exercised it on the innocents of Camelot. They proved him wise in the banning of it, over and over. We can’t expect that I’ll legalise it, and everyone will just go along with it.”

“Then why don’t we show them it can be used for good? If they could see--”

“Fine. But you’re not going to be the one to do it.”

“Why not?”

Arthur gave him a look as if he had said something rhetorically stupid. But Merlin only stared at him, and then it was that he had to answer after all. “Because I don’t want you to be murdered for heresy.” As an afterthought, lest it seemed he cared to an unbearable degree, he added, “I’d never have a properly heated bath again.”

“You know I do that with magic, right? Warm bathwater and clean armour are hardly evil.”

“I _knew_ you used it to cheat at your chores. Anyway, why don’t we just gather them all round next bathtime then, shall we? And you can show them all how you very benignly heat the king’s bath after a hard day, and then they’ll all cheer your name, and there will be a feast in your honour, and we’ll all get on brilliantly.”

“I think you just want to be naked in front of a crowd,” Merlin muttered, but not with much anger; he was only a little piqued. “Being an insufferable showoff and all.”

“Are you saying I have something to show off at bathtime?” Arthur asked, making a few thoughtful marks with his pen. He had said it absently, being absorbed in the text; but Merlin, being absorbed in his shoulders, to which Arthur’s tunic was very kind, and maybe even a bit overly flattering, jerked up his head.

“No!” His face was very bright. Arthur, in hearing his tone, and then upon turning seeing the face, suddenly realised he was flirting; and then he was overly aware of the flirting, which made him go a little red as well, though he was not as fair as Merlin, and did not show his embarrassment quite so obviously. He spun the pen round in his fingers. He cleared his throat. He was carefully debating how one should make it clear that it was all right for his mate to admire his penis, without making it clear that it was all right for his mate to admire his penis.

He said, “Here, look this over,” and flung his paper into Merlin’s face. Then they squabbled over what a prat Arthur was, and then got down to debating the wording of the law, and then quite forgot about whether it was or was not all right for Merlin to admire his penis. Arthur remembered when they had put the paper back onto the table, and Merlin leaned over his shoulder to make suggestions, but of course he had considerable restraint, and only pictured Merlin naked a little, and was prudent enough to put a bit of fig leaf over the unmentionable bits, so he could concentrate on writing his law.

This was all very domestic, and put a little smile on Gwen’s face when she had dinner with them, which was most nights; Arthur had to see petitioners during the day, and to consider the crops, and oversee the influx of taxes, and many other tasks besides, but in the evenings, if there was no emergency (or Lord Balor had not cornered him in the hallway to show him portraits of his three children, who had been fucked either by genetics, or the portrait artist), he took his dinner in his chambers, and had rousing arguments with Merlin, and chess games with Gwen.

It was tiring to be a king, and to always be gracious, and thoughtful, which as Merlin pointed out were not natural occurrences in Arthur, and had to be put on stiffly, like a mask. It was immense to shed them at the end of the day, and stick his feet in Merlin’s face, and complain to Gwen about the infrequency with which certain council members attended to basic hygiene. He could be peevishly demanding in his chambers, and order Merlin to rub his shoulders, or massage his scalp, which Merlin just as peevishly rejected, and then he could indulge in a bit of whingeing, and then Gwen, aggravated, could say to her liege in her gentle way that he should consider asking politely, and then maybe he could have his head rubbed, and probably anything else he liked. Of course she did not add the last, but she thought it very hard at them, and wished they would get on with it, so they could all be a bit more comfortable; it is tiring to pretend your friends do not love one another, especially when they are stupid, and unsubtle.

We have not yet mentioned something. Probably since the beginning you have wondered about the animals, and whether it really was that Arthur assumed any of them; and the answer is ‘yes’, though not so many as you think.

It came about in this way. The kingdom was getting off on a good foot with Arthur; he was solicitous to the petitioners (and there were many children, who had never dared to ask anything of Uther, but asked a great many things of Arthur, mostly about his dragon, and how he had got Excalibur) and his taxpayers. The legalisation of magic was coming along; he had drafted his third version of the law. There were brewing in his mind the deposing of Might Is Right, and the Round Table, still infantile concepts, without any of their frippery; but it was all getting on toward realisation, and he was pleased. He was also handsomer, being even trimmer from increased training; this is not pertinent to our tale, but we thought he should like us to mention it.

Merlin had not sensed any upset in him; there was the usual disquiet from his burden, but he talked that out well enough in the evenings, and seemed to bear it more easily, for sharing it. He was therefore not terribly concerned when Arthur went missing one morning, since it was a certain odious council member who complained of his absence, and this gave him a suspicion that Arthur had made a judicious use of the linen closets, and was now lounging somewhere private till the danger was over. Probably Gwen had rescued him; she had very good timing for that sort of thing, and knew many hidey holes.

He was still not concerned when he walked over the drawbridge with Sir Percival, and was in fact whistling. He went past the moat quite casually, and the moat went past significantly less casually, being in agony over the presence of Sir Percival; and so the surface of it was serenely unruffled, whilst all the brimful underlife of it did a thing that was like putting one’s face into one’s pillow, and screaming. Of course it was not exactly the same, but this will give you the feeling of it.

Sir Percival was like a large dog, and like a large dog, had imprinted on the smaller; so he followed Merlin about when he was not on patrol, and wanted to do things for him. He had seen how the king doted on him, and he doted on the king; so it was that he considered himself Merlin’s personal guard, and sometimes did not even let the ladies too close, if they had a shifty look about them. But he liked children, and seemed to spontaneously grow a little entourage of them anywhere he appeared, even Mordred, occasionally, who it cannot be said liked anything, in a human way; but he did enjoy the ball games, and looking down on people from Percival’s shoulders.

They had a small swarm of children about them in the courtyard, and were having a glorious time, till Gwen passed unmolested (Percival considered her a fine teammate, and an even finer designer of sleeveless chain mail) and looked at Merlin in a significant way. This reminded Merlin that Arthur was due on the training field in five minutes, and liked Merlin to hold his extra weapons, and his extra shields, and to pat his stupid, spoiled head down with towels when he got sweaty. He left a disappointed Percival and several small children in the middle of the story he had been telling, and dashed off toward the armoury.

We must return to the moat. It was in every way an ordinary moat. It gave a little _plip_ when Merlin passed it for the second time, and seemed generally agreeable. The sun was high that day, and nestled cheerily in it.

Then a head broke through the middle of the sun, splashing it all about. The pieces of it shattered against the bank, and were sipped in eager roots. Merlin glanced at the head, and kept running. It was only a little perch, with a gasping little mouth, and a stupid eye that looked at him in an animal curiosity.

“Merlin,” said the perch, and he tripped over his own feet, and flopped in an undignified way onto his stomach. “You _idiot_.” He had not been sure that it had said his name, despite his dramatic reaction to it; we always prefer to believe we are merely insane, since that is an easier explanation than a talking fish. And now it registered that the perch had not only said his name, it had done it in Arthur’s voice; and if he had not been certain, the rudeness of its following comment absolutely cinched it. Perch were not generally known for their unpleasantness, whereas Arthur was particularly known for it.

“ _Arthur_?”

“Shhhh!” the perch hissed. “Get up, and fetch something to carry me in.”

This was a perfectly acceptable suggestion, which Merlin after a moment scrambled up to obey, only there was at this moment a contingent of knights which passed, laughing uproariously, on their way to practice, and naturally as they all knew Merlin, they stopped to ask him why he was lying on his stomach beside the moat, in case it should be a reason for which they could rib him.

The Arthur perch had not had time to duck back into the water. Or rather, he had plenty of time in theory, only he had not yet got the hang of swimming as a fish rather than a man, and with a decided lack of finesse tried to backstroke out of danger. He was only moderately successful at it, if by moderately we mean ‘he did move himself through the water’; and that is all we can say of his attempt. He had put his face into some mare’s tail near the bank, and panicked, flopping about as if he had got tangled in something indestructible, when he had only been grazed a little, with friendly curiosity. We are sure the mare’s tail meant no harm.

Arthur’s was not the only ridiculous reaction; Merlin upon seeing him struggle panicked even more severely, and grabbing up the poor Arthur fish, stuffed it down the front of his tunic.

There was a profusion of coordinated blinking among the knights.

“Em,” Merlin said, articulately. “Perch is Gaius’ favourite. It’s...his birthday.” He smiled. His ears were protuberant enough that he looked harmless, and won them over. They had accepted Merlin was sometimes a bit odd, which was allowed in mascots, since they were otherwise cute, and mostly affable. It was then a little abrupt, but not unacceptable, when he stood up, and stammering something about getting the cook to prepare Gaius his special birthday lunch, dashed off with the Arthur fish wriggling in acute distress against his belly.

He burst into the workshop with a loud wheeze, calling for water.

Gaius, who was too startled to demand an explanation, held up the bucket beside him, and the perch was deposited with a splash into it. Gaius looked at it for a moment. He looked at Merlin. He lifted one of his judgemental eyebrows.

Merlin, holding his side, gasped to him, “Gaius, we have a problem. That’s Arthur.”

Gaius blinked in the way the knights had blinked. He looked back at the fish. The fish looked sulkily in return, and after a moment put up its head out of the water to say, “He isn’t mental. It’s me.”

Gaius nodded slowly, which is the only thing to be done in such a situation. “Well, Merlin, what have you got yourself into this time?”

“What? It wasn’t me, I swear! I found him like this in the moat.”

There are many things to be done when one’s king has been turned into a fish. First the workshop was closed up, and the bucket taken into Merlin’s room, where the patients were not allowed. Then it was that Merlin had to come up with an excuse for why Arthur could not attend training, which he did by explaining to all the Knights of Camelot that Arthur was in desperate need of his chamber pot, and would be for some time, if they caught his meaning.

“You told them _what_?” the Arthur perch demanded.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘He can’t come, I’ve got him in a bucket in my room.’”

“You could have told them something a little more _dignified_ , Merlin. Now they’re all going to think--”

“They’ll think you ate something bad. It’s happened to everyone, at some point or another.”

“Right, but you hardly _announce_ it in front of your supplicants, you absolute _nincompoop_ . Why don’t you gather the council as well? Let them know their king is indisposed due to a case of uncontrollable _bowels_. No one will be thinking of that next time I need to make a speech about our duty to equality and justice.”

“At least no one’s going to come looking for you. You know, a ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be completely out of line.”

The perch gave him a look which can be found on cats, when its human has failed to a degree punishable by execution.

Gaius interrupted at this moment with another stack of texts for Merlin to leaf through. They had already exhausted a number of spells on Arthur, none of which had accomplished anything other than to turn _Merlin_ into a fish--a lovely tench, if you would like to know--and then they had got to both swim round the bucket for a few minutes whilst Merlin determined how to magic himself back out of it, and there was much bumping about and cursing, and even a more than half-hearted assassination attempt. Perhaps a ¾ hearted one. When Merlin had got himself back, Arthur was outraged that Merlin did not think to cast the same spell on him as he had just cast on himself, and then Merlin yelled that he already _had_ , and then Gaius rubbed his forehead for a while as they argued. They could go on like this for hours, and it was only stopped now by Arthur, who, feeling very sorry for himself, opened his fishy lips to the silky water all about him, and having gathered an adequately offensive sample of it, spit it into Merlin’s face.

“Fine, stay like that, you big prat!” Merlin snapped.

Everyone sat in an oppressive silence for a moment. The Arthur perch said, “Sorry” almost as if to himself, hoping no one else had heard it.

“What was that?” asked Merlin, who had heard it perfectly.

“Oh, for God’s _sake_ !” Gaius blurted out. “Both of you, stop this. Sire, Merlin is doing everything in his power to correct the situation. But this is new to the both of us. I haven’t any clue where to begin. And Merlin has certainly never dealt with anything similar. You must be patient. I have every confidence we’ll sort it out, but it’s going to take time, and I think it prudent for all of us if we handle this in a _respectful_ manner.”

“Tell that to His Royal--”

Gaius’ eyebrows were of great power, and halted Merlin before he could finish his insult.

The perch glared at Merlin as best it could, which is to say that it fixed upon him a sort of vacuous bovine menace, and patted its lips together a few times.

“Fine,” said Merlin. “Shake on it, sire? Oh, wait.”

“Gaius, if he’s going to--”

“ _Stop_ . I have patients to attend. Merlin, I want you to consult the book on top there, that I’ve only just brought up. I think it’s your best chance. I’ll be back later this evening. I trust the two of you can get on long enough to restore Camelot’s _king_ to his rightful body, which I don’t need to remind you is of some interest to the entire kingdom, Merlin.”

It is difficult for a perch to look smug, since its expressional range is somewhat limited, but Arthur managed it well enough for Merlin to understand he was not insignificantly delighted over watching his manservant have the piss taken out of him. Merlin was then bitterly disappointed that it is impossible to drown a fish, and inadvisable to fry up a king, when he’s the only one you’ve got, and rather a good one, at that.

They sat quietly after Gaius had departed. Arthur swam round the bucket in a way which was thoughtful, but only looked habitual. He said, at last, putting up his head out of the water once more, “Well, get on with it.”

“Get on with what? I don’t have a proper counter spell yet.”

“Not a _spell_. You know.”

“No.”

The perch sighed with a great weariness, as if the burden of Merlin’s stupidity were simply unbearable. “Just kiss me, Merlin.”

“ _What_?”

“Well, it worked before,” Arthur replied, feeling quite stung at Merlin’s tone, as he had performed admirably on the Isle of the Blessed, and it was certainly preposterous to suppose that Merlin should have had any other snogging so talented, or heartfelt, or soft-lipped.

“Right, on a _love_ charm. I don’t think it’s going to do us any good here.”

“No harm in trying,” Arthur said, and having already stretched the limitations of the perch’s limited countenance with the smugness, gambled upon his ability to be surprisingly seductive, for a fish, and made flirtatious eyes at Merlin.

The stupid black eyes peered at Merlin in an unblinking, vaguely murderous way; he edged back a little. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Why not?” Arthur demanded. He was now grievously offended. People did not say that sort of thing to him, and of course it is always difficult to have got a True Love, and then for the True Love to withhold reasonable affection, even for someone less desirable, let alone a handsome blonde man of some 25 years, with a very large...sword. He considered it beneath his dignity to have to _ask_ to be kissed, since anyone should have naturally been ecstatic to do it without prompting, especially Merlin, who growing up probably had only a pig, or a comely hen. To have to ask, and then on top of that to be rejected, was absolutely unthinkable; and he pondered for not at all the first time how it befell that Merlin was such an intolerable boob.

“You’re a fish!”  

“So?”

“So I don’t want to kiss a fish!”

“Don’t be such a coward, Merlin. It can’t be that bad. I’m not a regular sort of fish.”

“Right, you aren’t a slimy, bulbous-eyed, stupid-looking fish that smells like algae. Arthur, I don’t know if you realise this, but you’re not a handsome king anymore, and I’d honestly rather kiss Gaius.”

Arthur latched onto this last bit with inappropriate zeal. “You think I’m handsome?”

“Only when your mouth is closed. And not right now. Even a little bit.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Merlin, but I am your king, and I am ordering you to put aside your poor taste and kiss me.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Arthur, but I am your beneficent caretaker who decides whether or not you’re dinner, and I don’t have to do anything you say.”

And as there was really no arguing with this (though Arthur certainly tried), the matter was all done for the moment, and Merlin took out the spell books to consider them, and laid down on his bed feeling pleased with himself.

  
  


There was not any change by that evening. Arthur was crankier, and had taken to putting his fins over the edge of his bowl the way a man looking over the back of a sofa might put his arms over it, but aside from that there was nothing. Well, Merlin had got him a nice little glass bowl, and some pretty river stones over which the water rippled quite pleasingly, and certainly it was all much nicer than the bucket, but that is all. Arthur was not even appreciative of it. In fact when Merlin had at last crawled into bed, promising to try again in the morning, he swam down to the stones, picked up one in his mouth, and surfacing, spit it at Merlin. It was neatly done, and thumped Merlin right between the eyes.

“Ow!”

“Get up,” Arthur demanded. “I’m not going to be a fish all night.”

“Well there’s nothing _I_ can do about it at the moment. Just go to sleep...erm...do you sleep?”

“How the hell should I know, _Merlin_? I’ve been a perch for exactly ten hours.”

“It’s more like nine and a half.”

Arthur spit another rock at him.

“Ow! Stop it!”

“Then get. Up. None of your spells have worked. Stop being such a big girl’s blouse and come and kiss me.”

Merlin pulled the pillow over his head and rolled over.

Arthur, considering for a moment with his stupid black eye, lipped up another stone, and shot it, _thwap_ , off Merlin’s elbow, which twitched. “Merlin.” He shot another, which struck his shoulder blade. “ _Merlin_.” Underneath the pillow there was an obstinate silence. He lined up another stone, sighting down it expertly, and then arcing it up over the lip of the bowl, at a trajectory which brought it down solidly onto the piece of Merlin’s jaw the pillow had slipped just enough to reveal. This made a lovely crack, and assuaged some of the spite in Arthur’s heart.

Merlin threw off the pillow with such violence it nearly knocked over the bowl, and performed an action we can only describe as ‘launched’, since any other verb would be wholly inadequate. He did this in the direction of the bowl, with his hair at every angle, shouting, “ _Fine_ , you big stupid...you big stupid!” He had not found anything comparable to Arthur’s big stupidness, and had to leave it at that. He snatched up the perch with considerable aggressiveness, and whilst Arthur had a secret thrill at being manhandled, he was also in some distress over how hard the fingers were squeezing him, and wriggled a bit, to show Merlin that he ought to be more considerate, and to treat others the way he would want to be treated, if he had been turned into a fish, and forced to endure great indignity.

When we say Merlin kissed Arthur, you must not get very excited about it. Merlin was certainly not. He puckered his lips the way you might pout up for a grandmother who smelt of her cats, trying to put as much distance between himself and the kiss as possible. He was under no illusion that there was to be any sort of ending like _The Frog Prince_ , since it was not yet published, and since the reality of kissing anything like a frog, or a fish, is only a very cold unpleasantness, and not at all romantic.

But in fact it did work. Whilst they were kissing in this tepid and unpalatable way, with the Arthur perch staring unblinking into Merlin, and flapping his tail about, and Merlin staring unblinking into his own eyelids, which he had screwed up painfully in the hope that the little red spots, which were revolving now before him, might revolve themselves into something handsome, Arthur became a man. They were still kissing when it was done, as if they had not noticed the change. This might seem silly, since there was an awful lot to be done, and it might seem to the reader that the little tail fin could not be split once more into muscular legs without someone having felt them part, and naturally the torso could not emerge from the white belly as if it had been there all along, and it shouldn’t be any surprise to see it again, nor could the slippery mouth become the hot pliancy of warm-blooded man, without anyone having remarked it. But actually it was all completed in a blink. It was a moment before either of them registered that Arthur was himself; and then they stepped back, staring murkily at the other.

Merlin was prone to spontaneous affection, whereas Arthur, as you well know, was only prone to restraint, and discontented masturbation. But it was Arthur who, after considering a moment, suddenly stepped back in, took Merlin’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

Now, this was the slow, shivery sort of kissing when only the tip of the tongue is employed (though to great effect). It was meant to impress Merlin (he was duly impressed).

It might seem that they should have got down to it with the desperation--and tempo--of virgins, considering how long they had waited. But Arthur was a sap, perhaps even moreso than Merlin, and wanted to hold him, and to kiss the entirety of the stupid face, and even the ridiculous ears. He forgot to be suave, and kissed Merlin with a helpless adoration, holding his face, and with soft and tender thumbs feeling about the spots to which his mouth was not currently devoted. He was eternally on the edge of something embarrassing, like sighing Merlin’s name in an utterly besotted way.

Merlin had inside of him a sudden fullness, in his throat, in his heart; hopefully you have known it. It is a little like sadness, in the beginning, because we do not assume that anything so consuming could be anything else. What a mad, careening thing is love, which can be taken as either extreme. He was somehow both wretched and ecstatic. He clung to Arthur, stricken. For a moment they only nosed at one another, their lips barely touching; Arthur was as if something had broken inside him, and leaned into Merlin, to be supported, to be loved: he was briefly and unconsciously free of his father, who did not approve of either. He did not consider whether it was weak. He did not consider whether he would be laughed at. He half-fell into the surprisingly sturdy arms, and was glad; that is all. There was something that could be called kissing, or melding; Merlin grabbed at the back of Arthur’s head, and Arthur at the front of Merlin’s tunic. They were now not in any way impressive, but clung to the other, kissing whatever they could get at.

You have to breathe, even when you’re in love, so they rested their foreheads against one another for a moment, looking up at the other through their lashes, and softly, softly, Merlin kissed the tip of Arthur’s nose, and forgot he was to die. It seems, to anyone in a moment like this, that there is not and never was any such thing as death.

But there must have been something pressing in on them, some presentiment. When they came back together, there was suddenly a heretofore unseen amount of tongue. Arthur kissed him in a way which lends itself to cliches about drowning; Merlin was his air source, etc. Merlin in the meantime had gathered up the collar of Arthur’s tunic in his hands, so that he could squeeze something with all the force his lust required of him, without destroying anything. He sucked at Arthur’s bottom lip, and Arthur, startled, made a noise in the back of his throat which was reciprocated by Merlin, who had suddenly discovered that Arthur could be fairly sexy when he was making sounds other than talking.

He pulled Arthur down onto the bed with him.

There was then some uncoordinated thrashing, whilst they tried to get Merlin out of his tunic without actually separating, and finding this could not be done, they returned for a while to that particularly satisfying brand of messy kissing which is undistilled lust, and requires nothing other than a lot of thrusting. Finally Arthur had the self-control to pull away, and wrested Merlin out of his tunic with possibly unnecessary violence; and then, straddling him, he peeled off his own.

Then there was new skin to be discovered, and some rolling round that was not unpleasant, even when Arthur ended up on bottom, and it seemed this was to go on forever, since Merlin liked the way Arthur flinched, and grabbed at his hair when he kissed down the line of hair that disappeared, enticingly, into Arthur’s trousers, and since Arthur liked the way his whiskers made a little rasping over Merlin’s nipples, and Merlin, gasping, arched up into him. It is true we should be a little demure, for the sake of the children; but the children have done nothing for us, and ought not to be reading this anyway. So we can specify that Arthur had lined up their hips, and that Merlin, in arching up, ground his cock into Arthur’s, and this, as you can well imagine, caused a lot of excitement. So much that Arthur, shuddering, panted into Merlin’s shoulder, in case something involuntary like a moan, or a verbal agreement to deed him all the lands of Camelot--which can be quite binding--should slip out. Pressing his face into the shoulder was not sufficient; he sank in his teeth. Merlin was quite energised by this; he tore Arthur away from his shoulder, and kissed him with a lack of regard for whether or not their teeth were in the way. The nape hairs which he had fisted in his fingers tore, and this too was agreeable; Arthur let out a sound which is only indicative of sex, or a fatal wounding, and never can be mistaken for anything else. Merlin put a hand over his mouth, and they discovered, simultaneously, that it was a universal kink, and now Merlin, holding it firmly in place, thrust up madly against Arthur, who thrust back, quite losing himself in a stream of invective the palm muffled, his eyes rolling back in his head.

They were going at it so savagely the bowl on the table beside the bed which was formerly the habitat of Arthur, gave two little hops across the table, shivered on the edge, and fell. This would be a tidy euphemism for an orgasm, if, tragically, its sudden demise had not interrupted the both of them in achieving their own.

They froze. Below, from the workshop, there was a tremulous call: “Merlin?”

Merlin took his hand from Arthur’s mouth. Possibly it seemed inappropriate to erotically smother Arthur whilst Gaius was conscious. Probably it was inappropriate to erotically smother Arthur whilst Gaius was unconscious, but humans are wonderfully casual about sin if nobody is paying attention. ‘The Ten Commandments are really more of a loose guideline anyway. ;)’ --Jesus

“He’ll go back to sleep,” Merlin whispered, and they returned to snogging one another with wild abandon.

“Merlin. _Merlin_ ,” Arthur was saying breathlessly, at first because he had forgot it was girly, and then because he didn’t care. He had even forgot his hormones for a moment, and went back to holding Merlin’s face, and kissing him as if he were delicate, or at least infinitely precious. But it is not easy to override all those evolutionary notions about the act of procreation (even a practice act); and humping, despite its vulgarity--or most likely precisely because of it--never loses its gloss. They went back to it with a flailing desperation.

They were both very close to ensuring Merlin did not have any excuse to laze about on laundry day when Merlin suddenly shoved Arthur back from him, his head tilting toward the door. “He’s coming up the stairs.”

“What?” Arthur asked muggily, trying to kiss Merlin’s neck; he was put back again.

“Gaius is coming up the stairs!” Merlin hissed. And following this: “The door doesn’t have a bolt on it!”

“What kind of door doesn’t have a _bolt_ on it?” Arthur demanded, plunging over the side of the bed, in the direction in which he thought his tunic had flown.

“One that belongs to a poor person whose employer doesn’t care about his privacy!”

“ _You’re_ one to talk about privacy, Merlin,” Arthur snapped, pulling up the tunic, and with thick fingers fumbling himself into it.

It was a near thing. Merlin had just pulled on his own tunic, and Arthur made an attempt (only marginally successful) to put his hair to rights when there was a knock at the door. They looked at one another. Arthur flung himself onto the bed in a casual way, pulling Merlin’s pillow into his lap. He crossed his legs, as one did when they had most definitely not been previously engaged in attempting sexual congress with their manservant. Merlin smoothed down his fringe, and opened the door. “Gaius!” he said, with the sort of joviality only employed by the drunk and/or the guilty. “Look who’s back!”

Gaius looked at Arthur lounging very nonchalantly with his strategically-positioned pillow, and raised his foreboding Eyebrow.

“I found a spell.”

“He found a spell.”

There was a somewhat awkward silence. Arthur scratched his nose. “So he’s not entirely useless. And...I’m all better.”

“I’m glad to see it, sire,” Gaius said in a tone that attempted to convey how immensely unsuspicious he found it that they should be half-disheveled, in Merlin’s bedroom, at the hour of dawn, with a strategically-positioned pillow in Arthur’s lap. Arthur fluffed the corners of it, casually. Merlin, with his own lap half-hidden behind the door he had only partially opened, smiled innocently, or at least in a way which he perceived as innocent, which meant that it confirmed to Gaius, graphically, that his apprentice had just despoiled the king of all Britain. “Well,” he said. “Very good.” And fled, as if he were twenty years younger, and did not have to hobble about on the stairs with all consideration for his knees.

Arthur pushed the heel of his hand into his forehead and looked at Merlin. He was not certain whether to laugh, or burst into tears, and settled finally on a wryness of countenance that seemed more fitting to his dignity and characterisation.

And then--he did laugh; the absurdity of it had touched something in him. It is not often one gets to be a fish, and to be nearly despoiled by the great homosexual love of one's life, all within the span of minutes.

He stood up, and taking the pale confused face in his hands, kissed Merlin with enough tongue to ensure that he would need to engage in the same hurried courtship of himself that Arthur was going to set to once he had reached the privacy of his own rooms. "Maybe," he said, pulling back, whilst Merlin's glazed eyes stared into him, a bit wavering, "tonight, you can attend me in my chambers, where there is an actual proper door with an actual proper lock on it."

"Yeah," Merlin said, in a dazed and nearly awed sort of way, and Arthur, exceedingly pleased that he had unlocked the secret to his manservant's obedience, kissed him even more seriously, till Merlin had gone a bit floppy in his arms (though not anywhere else), as if he were no longer quite as corporeal, and had dissolved, just a little, on account of Arthur's extraordinary skill and good looks.

And Arthur, feeling in his knees the strangeness of lamed men, went down the stairs in a fever of good spirits.

  
  


Arthur was positively glowing at practice, and went about smiling at everything, so that there was some concern for his health. He did not punish his men any less for their incompetence, but he stood beside them when they had got to hold a squatting position, with their sword over their head, sweating out their mistake, and made a great many jabs at them, all good-humoured, laughing at his own cleverness, and touseling the head of the unfortunate subordinate who had to worry equally about the lactic build-up in his thighs, and the sanity of his master.

It was not that he had ceased to regard the danger, but Uther's death had lifted something from him. In the tumultuous passions which Uther's death had excited in his breast, there was among them a certain lightness which he thought might be freedom, even weighted by a crown. It had taken Uther's death for Arthur to realise it, but whilst Uther had existed, there had lain an obstacle, impenetrable, between Arthur and the unassailable human right to love. Uther had poisoned even what his friends had given him. He sometimes looked even at Merlin and wondered, not at the tenacity of his loyalty, but at the direction of it, and whether or not it had been ill-guided. And now it was that he thought, and perhaps was even on the trajectory to knowing, unflinchingly, he could be loved.

Merlin was like a puppy who sees no malice in the world, and goes out to greet it with a joy only the very young have for each new miracle of rustling grass and sussurant stream. This was not unlike the Merlin who came to Camelot with innocent and loving heart; but it was not indicative of the Merlin who had lost Gwaine. There was a new solemnity in that Merlin, who had learned at knifepoint, in the way of the harsh Earth, that friendship, and love, are no great bulwark.

The staff was glad to see him gadding about (except cook). He kissed Gwen on the cheek and helped all the maids carry up their heavy burdens of bedding and breakfast. He laughed at any joke, and made no distinction between whether or not it was actually funny.

There was only one hitch in either of their moods, and it was in Arthur’s, when returning from patrol he encountered Merlin in the hall, and was prepared to burst into a frankly stupid smile when he spotted the sprig of foxglove in Merlin’s neckerchief. “What’s that?”

“Githa gave it to me. Looks nice, doesn’t it?” Merlin had met no such obstacle to smiling like an idiot, and stood beaming at Arthur to the exclusion of all else.

“Why’d you accept it from her?”

“Because she gave it to me.” Merlin was still beaming at him, but the tone of the smile had shifted just slightly, to encompass both his love and his incredulity at Arthur’s stupidity.

“Merlin,” Arthur explained very patiently, as if to a child who had been dropped on its head, “you do realise she gave it to you because she likes you?”

“Of course she likes me. We’re friends.”

“Not like _that_ , you utter--”

“Oh, I get it,” Merlin interrupted, and the smile, inexplicably, was brighter now. “You’re jealous.”

“I am _not_ ,” Arthur spluttered, indignantly.

“Well I don’t see _you_ giving me anything to replace it,” Merlin said with insouciant cheer, and went away whistling to his chores.

And so it was that Arthur was fifteen minutes late for his council meeting, because he had first got to ride out to where the wildflowers now in fragrant bloom elbowed one another about in the sun, for the choicest bits of soil, and then to kneel in the dirt digging up first one clump and then another of dogwood, because the first was not satisfactory, and the second accidentally crushed, so that he had to cast about for yet a third plant, and then ride back, wild-haired, into Camelot with dirt on his cheeks, scattering a few of the villagers. Then he was too cowardly to actually give Merlin the flowers, and shoved them under Merlin’s pillow in a sudden terror, when a maid came in with bedding, and nearly caught him red-handed in the act of being romantic.

“Sire!” she blurted out, almost dropping the bedding in the storm of curtseying which followed. He saw that it was Githa, and neglected the apology on his tongue. He was extraordinarily put out to see that she looked pretty to such a degree that even someone as consistently blind to the charm of handsomeness as Merlin couldn’t help but notice. It was all very nice for her. He snatched back the flowers when she wasn’t looking, and thrust them into his coat.

  
  


There was sadly not any consummation of Arthur’s suggestion that day. They were nearly to the end of it, and Merlin already waiting with sweating hands and Arthur’s steaming dinner, when word came from one of the villages in Camelot’s holdings that some fearsome beast had murdered a child, and carried off its body into the woods. Arthur sent himself and his men in pursuit of it. It was only in the impenetrable black, with the forest sibilant all around them, and the streams chuckling with the mad glee of water at midnight, when it has nothing else with which to compete, that he directed them at last to make camp. He assigned the first watch to himself and Merlin, and the rest fell into a dreamless exhaustion which cannot really be called sleep, and is more like a temporary death.

They sat some distance from the camp, looking off into the trees, with the fire crackling behind them. It was a cloudless night, and the stars with the habitual showiness of their kind gave off a milky gleam, and the moon her own soft pearlescence. The trees slept calmly under it, in the way everything is more gently behaved by moonlight, and shows only its best colours.

Merlin tried to put his head on Arthur’s shoulder, as if he were Arthur’s girlfriend, and Arthur, starting, pushed his head away. “Merlin! What if someone sees?”

“Right. One of the knights is going to wake up at this exact moment, look at exactly the right spot between the trees, see me leaning on you, and assume a torrid affair instead of thinking I’ve gone off to sleep, which I always do when we’re on watch.”

“You really are useless,” Arthur pointed out, but let him do it after all. There was an unnecessary amount of burrowing before Merlin found precisely where he wanted to be on Arthur’s shoulder.

They listened into the calmness of the night, into all the soft turnings of the world, and its living. There was a peace in their hearts only achievable on a good clear night, when all of mad humanity stirs somewhere beyond in unfathomable reaches; there is a detachment in woods like these, in loves like these. They are the spaces where nothing else can be. Even Arthur was not obtuse to it, and tried to hold Merlin’s hand. His shyness was a hindrance, and Merlin’s obliviousness was not helpful in overcoming it; but finally realising what Arthur was trying to do, he took up the cold fingers in his, smiling into the mailed shoulder.

It was some time they sat like that. Arthur’s heart did all sorts of foolish things in his chest.

I think, in remembering him, we must remember there was a man, first; and then a king. And he was, for a moment, desperately happy. It was a little like sadness, as we have said; because he had never known anything so consuming could be anything else.

Wordlessly, he took out the flowers he had carried, first in his coat, and now in a pouch on his belt, and neither had been very kind to them; they were rumpled, and had lost their sheen. They were now reminiscent of the transition between autumn and winter, when the leaves in jeweled life suddenly are shriveled, and lost to us, just as abruptly as that.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, taking them with a smile he could hardly stand, it was so nearly painful, “these are complete shit.”

Arthur punched him in the shoulder. There was, afterward, a marginally friendly shoving match (Arthur was a little more serious than Merlin, owing to Merlin’s appalling unappreciation of the difficulties he had gone to).

You know they did not go merrily into the sunset. You know there was a terrible battle, and bloodshed, and that war took unalterably, according to its nature. We cannot dither about much longer. All stories end: and because we go on telling them does not change that they have passed, and we are whittling at an old, dead wood, trying to ignore the transience of the whole lot of us.

  
  


Next morning was all business. The creature was duly hunted, and duly dispatched, and the poor child’s meagre bones laid to rest in the springtime of earth, when it is most sympathetic.

There was at this point an opportunity for much excitement, since they were all going home, to their beds, and especially since Merlin and Arthur were going home to each other’s; but the tiny bones with their wavering scraps of flesh had subdued them all, and they rode back in a brooding silence. Sir Percival was trying not to cry (he was an easy crier, not any less prone to it than Merlin, but he was better at hiding it). He rode next to Merlin, who was a little like a security blanket for him, because he was small, and good, and the world is not quite so mean when it makes such allowances for these attributes.

Of course it was only noon by the time they returned, and they still had the rest of the day to get through, before they could lock themselves into Arthur’s chambers, and emerge only once they had learned new and perhaps grotesque things about one another. They nevertheless made eyes at one another when they dismounted, already in anticipation of it. Probably it was all going to be a bit more tender, on account of the poor child; Arthur was no longer planning on throwing Merlin into the wall, and undoing his trousers with his teeth, but was thinking more about lying for a while in the bed, kissing Merlin in the clumsy way in which he tried to convey the things Uther had taught him not to say. He was almost priggish, and did not picture Merlin naked, but thought instead of how his eyes would look in the candlelight, and all that sort of rot. (Whilst on his way to the audience chamber, he did have a sudden flash to Merlin’s nipples, and the rasping of his whiskers over them, and then turned a sweaty shade of exertion which the people approved, thinking he had got it in valiant battle.) But other than that, it was all perfectly innocent.

He saw petitioners for hours, including a very small girl, who wanted to sit on his knee and watch the proceedings, and thoroughly embarrassed her mother in asking innocently to do exactly that, but Arthur, considering it a reasonable request, put her on his left, away from Excalibur, which children sometimes liked to tug at. Upon hearing out a petitioner, he would turn solemnly to the girl and ask her opinion, and she would turn solemnly to him, and give it. He was not at all above listening to children, who see things we do not, without knowing how, and therefore they do not question it. She was more decisive than most of his advisors.

Afterward he sent her back to her mother, escorted especially by three of his guard, with a little wooden dragon Merlin had whittled for her, being overwhelmed by her charm when he came to stand in the back, and beam all over his face at what a good king Camelot had got. They had dinner together in the audience chamber, their knees touching under the table, and looked at one another in a meaningful way when the guards were not paying attention. Arthur even rubbed his foot against Merlin’s shin, and then looked away with an innocent motion of his eyebrows, as if he had done it accidentally.

Merlin had gone off to complete his chores and the last few petitioners were being shown out when Gaius walked in, his hands politely behind his back.

“Gaius! Good to see you.” Arthur meant it; he was fond enough of Camelot’s physician that he was not long in getting over the awkwardness of wondering what Gaius did or did not know about the reality of his transformation. “Can I do something for you?”

“I need to speak privately with you, sire,” Gaius said, looking at the guards. “About a personal matter.”

“Of course.” Arthur’s heart had climbed into his throat; he felt his hands clammy on the arms of his throne, and dismissed the guard. They closed the doors behind them; it was a very lonely, hollow sound.

They looked at one another for a moment. They were both aware of his purpose, or, at least, Arthur had enough inkling of it to feel wretched. He was too hot under his tunic. He was aware, intimately, uncomfortably, that at last he was to be confronted: and he did not know if he had the courage for it. He thought it would be a failing of Merlin, to deny anything; but it was a failing of his father to admit anything. And there he was wedged, aching, knowing to whom he owed his loyalty, and unable to categorically give it. He was still small in himself, imagining Uther’s disappointment. He was more frightened now, than in the rush of any tenderness to which he had surrendered: he knew the dangers of acknowledgement. He knew that when we love something, we must try not to know it, for in knowing, it becomes something we can lose.

There was something in his throat. He tried to be good, and to swallow it. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps he had been too close to his happiness, and now could not extricate himself nicely from it, without any undue hurt. He sat empty in his throne, looking down at his hands.

“I think you know why I’m here, sire.” Gaius was kind enough to not make him say it. “I am under the suspicion that Merlin did not, in fact, happen upon a spell. If I’m not mistaken, there was a repeat of the Lady Vivian incident. Am I correct in assuming so?”

Arthur did not look away from his hands. “Yes.”

“Arthur.” He said it gently, Gaius. “You’re about to legalise magic. Merlin’s powers will be revealed sooner or later. If you were to be caught, if anyone were to discover your relationship, the people would assume he had ensorcelled you. They would not believe their king could have those sorts of...urges on his own. They would be angry on your behalf.”

Arthur scrubbed his hand angrily against the bridge of his nose. He felt perilously close to weeping. He was not in any danger of it manifesting; but it was sharp inside of him, and did a great mischief to his voice, when he tried to use it. “What do I do, Gaius? Do I send him away?” he asked hoarsely, and looked up at last, to see if there were any answers for him. And a profound pity entered Gaius, for the boy was still very young, and the youth cannot help who they love.

“I don’t think we need to be so drastic just yet. But I think, sire, it may be time to consider marriage. That will help quell any rumours.”

“Are there rumours?”

“Not so far as I’m aware. But sooner or later, Arthur, whoever has put these charms on you is going to work out who’s been running round here, breaking them for you. And then I don’t know where we would be.”

“You know where we’d be. You’ve already said it,” Arthur said, scrubbing at the bridge of his nose again. He went back to staring at his hands. There was an absence in his chest: or perhaps it was a fullness. He could not tell. They are both of them equally painful.

“Gaius,” Arthur said as he turned to leave, the hands still thoughtfully behind his back. “It isn’t true. He hasn’t ensorcelled me.”

“I know, sire. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“I love him,” Arthur said, helplessly, because it needed to be told, just once.

“Oh, my boy,” Gaius replied heavily, with tears in his milky old eyes. “I know.”

  
  


Arthur was reviewing prospective brides when Merlin burst into his chambers. He had come on through the corridors like some sort of rampaging beast, and now, with sweaty fringe, and flushed ears, shut the door behind him. He was luminescent. He smiled at Arthur with the full force of everything in him, and broke Arthur’s heart.

He went back to looking at his list.

Merlin was not yet cognisant of the shift between them. He sidled up, a little shyly, to the table, and said, “What are you doing?”

“Reviewing eligible brides,” Arthur replied in the same tone of voice with which he might review a good harvest, with nothing particularly to interest him.

The smile dropped. It was as if someone had turned off something in Merlin. He was suddenly pale. “What?”

“I’ll have to be married sooner or later; there’s no reason to keep putting it off.” He flicked a page. He was terribly attentive to the presence of Merlin behind his shoulder, and felt the hair rise in an electric prickling on his forearms. There was the realisation, more striking than ever before, that he would have to endure this, forever, and to ignore it. He would be sealed away into marriage, coldly inaccessible.

There was a moment of wild grief for which we cannot blame him, and it spoke through him, and was cruel, in accordance with his own pain. Sometimes it is so terrible, and wounds us so deeply, that we must turn it against another: this is how humanity has excused itself, since we crawled in naked ambition from our caves. He snapped, “What? Did you think it was going to be you, Merlin?”

And there was a silence which made him feel, trebly, the meanness of what he had said. Merlin replied, very quietly, “No. But I thought--”

“Well, as usual, you thought wrong.”

Arthur looked without seeing onto the list of names and lands, and in the strange quality of a silence which is many-voiced, and projects itself louder than all the swarming world which goes on unconcernedly beyond, Merlin went away.

Neither of them slept that night.

Arthur missed being called Princess, and all the various ridicules of Morgana, who had never thought of him as a prince, but only a very silly boy. He thrashed about, alone, in the large bed, under its many skins, and let himself go in a soft pity to the mosses of Lancelot’s grave, and the sword lying in posthumous devotion before the healing veil. And he was never more lonely than since he had held his father’s veined hands, and watched him being taken, bit by bit, from this savage uncompromising earth.

Merlin sat at the worktable, and was patted by Gaius, and gently talked round. He sniffled and felt very sorry for himself.

But he was back in Arthur’s room next morning with his breakfast, a little wretchedly red-eyed, though smiling. It was not the smile of the previous evening; this was restrained. It had got the shit roundly beat out of it. It was trying, regardless, to go on: and that was all it could do.

Arthur came out from behind his dressing screen, and froze. He straightened his tunic, which was perfectly aligned, for something to do.

“Hi,” Merlin said, softly.

“Hi,” Arthur said, equally softly.

“I already ordered all your choices from one to twenty in order of giggles-too-much to mildly-power-hungry-but-competent. Your list was terrible. I don’t know what you’d do without me.”

“I don’t know either,” Arthur said, and nearly shamed the ghosts of Pendragons past. He cleared his throat a little, to compose himself. He sat down to his breakfast. “Princess _Lynette_ at number six?”

“Yeah. She’s nice.”

“She has a mole the size of--”

“You know, Arthur, you’re so shallow--shouldn’t you be thinking of Camelot?”

“I am thinking of Camelot. It has a certain...aesthetic to uphold. And she snorts when she laughs. And her voice makes me want to put a dagger through my ear.”

“Well, we can’t all be handsome and blonde and...no, that’s it. Your voice isn’t anything special either. And sometimes you snort when you laugh too.”

“I do _not_.”

Merlin made a face that suggested Arthur was a lying liar who lied. “You do.”

This was not an insult to the crown which could be borne; Arthur picked up a piece of bread from his plate, and threw it at Merlin, who stopped it mid-air with a flash of his eyes. And then with a little flick of his powers, he snapped it back into Arthur’s face, hitting him squarely in the nose.

There followed a rousing discussion about what a nasty cheat Merlin was, and how Arthur really ought to have a better sense of sportsmanship, and in the midst of this, as if he thought he could sneak it in, and so diminish its impact, Arthur said suddenly, going quiet, “Merlin, you know…” and here he had to pause, to order himself. It must be supposed that he was abruptly sick of himself, and his prevaricating, and that was why he grabbed Merlin’s hand, and nearly crushing it, said in a rush, as if the words could not now wait to be free of him, “there can’t ever be anyone else. For me. But I don’t expect you to wait.”

And Merlin, gripping back the hand with the same bruising force, smiled, in the way he would smile when he knew it was to be Arthur’s last sight. “I’ve been waiting a long time anyway.”

“There’s nothing _to_ wait for, Merlin. I’m always going to be king. We can’t flee to a small village and be...farmers or something.” He was exasperated with Merlin’s stubbornness, and wanted to shake it. He thought perhaps he could bear it, in that poetical nobility of the suffering hero, if they were not to both be trapped.

“That’s the thing about me, Arthur. You can have no expectations, and I’ll still manage to disappoint them.”

  
  


We must now take you to the little house in the lower town, fragrant with stew, where Gwen in the gentle ease of choreless evenings was knitting before the hearth. For this is the tale of how the handmaiden Gwen became the Queen Guinevere, and whilst it was not a painless transition, it was a quiet one.

This was the very birthplace of the idea. It had come to her days earlier, whilst she was preparing dinner, and now was solidifying amidst the whispering needles, and gorgeous stew. She had no designs upon being queen; the title was only incidental. The whole thing had come to her like this.

Firstly, you must not suppose that these two events which we have just described were simultaneous; Merlin and Arthur did not bend aching to their list, armouring themselves in a hearty banter, whilst the needles went, and the stew wafted. None of these existed at the same time as the stew, or the knitting, or the little wrinkle of thought between Gwen’s brow. In fact there were some days between them.

She had got the entire thing out of Merlin on an evening visit some days past. He was wretched, and tried not to show it; he had the brightness of someone ever on the verge of tears, who seeks to make up for it by cheering everyone around them. It had probably fooled most of the staff, and perhaps even Arthur, because he wanted to be fooled upon the subject of Merlin, who was almost too dear to him, if such a thing is possible (and certainly it seems so, to the Pendragon men). It did not fool Gwen. She said, “Merlin,” in her soft voice, and it undid him. He sat down in one of her chairs, and pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes. He did a thing that was like weeping, which is to say his shoulders shook, and there were all the usual heavings inside of him; but nothing came out, and this is most excruciating of all, because we have tried to free it, and found we are bound. She bent over the back of the chair, and held his head against her, and made shushing noises in his ear, and for a while he was held, and loved, and it was almost enough.

Then there had come the whole stumbling confession, the first kiss, the last; he said to her, “Gwen, I love him. I always have.”

She was not daunted by any of it. Of course she had known; she had nearly always known. She felt as sorry as if it had been done to her, because Merlin was a sweet, silly thing, easily crushed; and Arthur even moreso. She thought with no troubled waters in her breast that there ought to be something done about it, and because she loved them both, the something fell to her. In fact she was very calm, and perhaps it was because she still loved Lancelot, still met with him in her dreams, still wore the coin on a thong around her neck, and nightly touched it, as a nun might her rosary, and therefore had the tranquil confidence of security, that her Great Love was not forthcoming, that she did not now forsake him, the possibility of him. She was young. She could not see the older, tempered loves that visit us gently in our less impassioned years and are not immolating, but warmly consistent.

She went to Arthur. It was the tournament match of their chess evenings. He was falsely enthused for it.

She said as he set up the board, “Arthur. I know how you feel. About Merlin.”

He stopped with a rook in his hand. He looked up with the eyes of a boy. They stared at one another in the candlelight, for a long time. “Merlin has the most enormous mouth in all the five kingdoms.”

“I’ve known for a long time, Arthur. Ever since he was sick, when Gaius thought he might have smallpox. It isn’t Merlin’s fault. I just...I knew. You were so worried about him.”

“Gwen--”

“No, let me go on. I know marriage is...your duty. I know it isn’t feasible, this thing with Merlin. But if you had a sympathetic wife, who didn’t mind.”

He was trying to be polite; her tone was very gentle, after all. But he could not quite school the incredulity out of his eyebrows. “Gwen, my marriage will be a political alliance. No woman who wants to marry the king of Camelot is going to turn a blind eye to his unnatural...dealings with his manservant.”

“And what if the woman were a friend?”

He pursed up his lips now, and twirled the rook about in his fingers, and looking down at it, said, as lightly as he could, “Guinevere, are you proposing to me?”

“Oh! It must seem very egotistical--I didn’t mean--Arthur, I’m not--it’s not as if I think I’m _worthy_ of Camelot or anything--”

He took her small hands in his very large ones, softly, and smiled across the table at her. “I can think of no one worthier, Guinevere. But you don’t deserve that sort of marriage. And I could never be that sort of husband. Especially to you.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I know how the two of you feel about one another, Arthur, and it isn’t fair--”

“Few things are, Gwen. But I’m a king; this was always eventually going to be my lot. Love is not a consideration a king gets to make, in choosing his bride. It’s not like that for you. You can marry anyone you like. For any reason whatsoever.”

“Yes,” she said, the small hands suddenly cold and unstirring in his own. “And I would have. But he’s gone now.”

Arthur did an unexpected thing. He pulled them both up from their chairs, and embraced her. He did it without any awkwardness; there was no clumsy patting of her back, or uncertain petting of her hair. They were only two lonely people, who had lost, and were seeking something that was healing. She put her arms round him the way she had all those years ago, in her tiny house, with that lovely stage dressing of dying sun, and handsome prince, when she had thought any such moment must be a precursor to a ballad. And now she was equally smitten, but with more years in her breast, and more knowledge, and she understood: so too are these soft loves meritorious. Perhaps we do not write any sound friendship into our poems, because they have never whispered a promise like fire beneath our windows, and climbed our rose trellis. But oh, how good is their love.

“You don’t deserve a loveless marriage, Arthur. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever known.” And she touched his cheek as a lover might have, but with no fleeting passion swiftly burnt.

“You know, Guinevere, perhaps you’re right. And, fortunately, there’s someone I love, who would make an excellent queen. And a superior replacement for any of my generals.”

And he kneeled, and made her a formal proposal, and kissed her hands: and here ended the first year in the reign of King Arthur of Camelot.

  
  


Three other years passed by.

Arthur and Gwen were married, of course, and the people rejoiced even if the advisors did not, and when Arthur explained that he wanted Camelot to be a land of something he referred to as ‘equality’ (this was a new word to the advisors), where people were simply people, and they were honourable or they were not honourable, regardless of blood, the people rejoiced more and the advisors even less, for there were several among the latter with nothing but breeding to recommend them as the human animal. (And even that was not particularly persuasive.)

There had not been a formal execution by the Law for the practise of magic since the time of Uther Pendragon; and it befell in the second year of his reign that Arthur formally legitimised it, to some great upset. He had nearly forbidden Merlin from revealing his magic till it had all smoothed over, for as we have said, to outright forbid it was the surest way to drive Merlin to a thing; but Merlin said to him, quietly, on the night of its legalisation, whilst they were alone in Arthur’s chambers, drinking before the fire, “Camelot is mine too, Arthur. To love, to risk myself for. I don’t want to hide any longer. People can make of me what they will.” And there is hardly any arguing against that, though of course Arthur wanted to.

So there was a banquet, and before his people, Arthur said to them, with his heart beating in his throat, “I know my decision upon magic has come as a surprise to some of you. My father worked hard to eradicate it from this kingdom, for the safety of all Camelot. He was--” and here Arthur faltered, for upon the subject of Uther there could never be any of that lucidity of the public speaker, who has polished up every word, “he tried to do what he felt was right, for his people. But no man can be all-seeing. And sometimes, we are most blind to what is right in front of us.”

He looked now to Merlin as he spoke, so they could hold one another’s eyes throughout it. “People of Camelot, magic has been a friend and ally to us for a very long time. To me. We must not generalise anything, especially evil. For in doing so, we risk the good.” And here he shut his eyes.

There was only a gentle pressure in the air; that was all. When he had opened them again, Merlin was standing at the head of the table, with both hands out in front of him. He had not gone for any grandstanding; he could have conjured any number of animals, or great towers, but into the hall there came only a profusion of lights, each perhaps the size of his palm, as gently lit as any March moon. He put every good intention, every wish for Camelot into these orbs; he put all his love for its king into them, and in this way spoke from the blood of him, to foil the ancient hatreds.

And Arthur, recognising the orbs from one particular Adventure, years now behind him, when he had gone to retrieve the mortaeus flowers for his dying friend, and had known in the lightless caves of Balor this benevolent illumination, went on bended knee before Merlin, and bowed his head. Gwen went down after him. There was after this some murmuring, and then the scraping of the chairs, and the rustling of many fabrics, and knees of various years. And it was finally that nearly all the banquet knelt at the side of their king, before their young warlock; and some of them wept, feeling it all right, when their king looked up with some of the brightness in his eyes on his cheeks.

Of course they were not all pleased about it, and they were not all understanding; but that is the way of man. We cannot tell it differently.

The boy Mordred grew into a handsome young man of sixteen years, or thereabouts. He was a quiet thing, which often is confused for thoughtfulness; and perhaps it was. But what he thought is still unknown, except perhaps to Merlin, who found him sometimes in Gaius’ chambers, doing nothing particularly, but only standing, and staring in a measuring way at Merlin, who did not like him, and would not warm to him.

Merlin tried once to warn Arthur, but if it were that simple, they would not have lost one another. There never would have been any tragedy, other than the tragedy of living.

“ _Mordred_? Merlin, he’s a child,” Arthur said to him, putting aside the speech he was writing.

“He won’t always be a child. And you killed his mother.”

“Don’t talk rubbish.”

“I’m not talking rubbish, Arthur! It’s a prophecy! It was Kilgharrah who told me.” He had expected that to have some weight; it is generally expected that dragons are all-knowing, because of their years, and their ability to eat you over a disagreement.

But Arthur only sat back in his chair, folding his hands on the table before him. “Merlin, Morgause was wretched to him.”

“She was still his mother. He must have loved her, in some way. You love Uther. You still do.”

Arthur looked away, working his jaw round. “When I brought him to Camelot, I had some of the maids give him a good scrubbing-up. You can’t imagine...what we found. She had burned him all over. She must have...taken a candle to him. Everywhere. I won’t do to him what she did because of anything anyone’s said. Even Kilgharrah. He’s wrong. Mordred is a friend. He’s nearly a son.”

And for Arthur he was, and he raised Mordred in the ways his father had not raised him, and personally cheered his every triumph, and in his failures never turned aside, but let him know that love is not beholden to gladiatorial accomplishment, and never can it be infringed upon by something so little indicative of the heart of man.

Mordred hated him. We know little of what there was behind the faded grey eyes; but we know this. He had loved his mother, inexplicably, for that is the only way to love an abuser; and sometimes we never can get over them. They have approached love from the wrong angle, and we know only how to come at it from the same. He had learnt as a boy that mummy loved him; and because she beat him, because she burnt him--these were not anything other than proof of her love, which was so consuming it could sometimes only be expressed in violence. It is known by every man who has gone to war for his Cause that sometimes this is the only way in which to love. Speak softly of it, and call it gently to your hand, some poet perhaps has said; but there is never any softness about something so incendiary. Arthur had taken his mother, and this was an unconscionable evil; and that was all he thought upon the matter. He had been told: mummy was good; and anything which struck out at her bad, and he knew the world in these strict colours, and nothing else.

We are coming shortly to our point. But we must dispense with a few other things, first.

Of course not much ageing is done by men in their 20s, so we can say that whilst the fields died and blossomed, there was really hardly any change in either Merlin or Arthur, except the grey hair which Merlin once found whilst brushing down one of Arthur’s coats, and which both he and Gwen tried to hide.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, and Gwen looked wide-eyed at Merlin, who did an unconvincing thing with his face, and said, “Nothing!” far too cheerfully.

“ _Merlin_.”

“There was a grey hair on the shoulder of your coat.”

“ _What_? There can’t be. I’m only twenty-eight.”

Merlin brushed down the coat in a very devoted way, since he didn’t have anything to say to that other than, “That doesn’t matter sometimes. Lord William was twenty-seven,” which he did anyway, because he couldn’t help himself.

“What happened to Lord William?”

“Full head of grey.” Gwen nudged him. “And then it fell out.”

“It _fell out_?”

“All of it,” Merlin said, and was nudged again.

“I’m sure that won’t happen to you, Arthur! You have very nice hair. With a lot of blonde still left in it,” Gwen reassured him, coughing a little into her hand, so she wouldn’t laugh.

“What do you mean ‘a lot of blonde still left in it’?! It ought to _all_ be blonde.” He went to the mirror on the wall, frowning at himself in it, as if he were afraid he might have got less handsome between now and the last time he had looked in it, five minutes ago.

“It is!” they chorussed, with the brightness of false sincerity in both their voices.

“I’m sure you’d still be very handsome, even without any hair,” Gwen said, because she did feel very sorry for him, even if he was a bit ridiculous.

There was much of this gentle domesticity, not always at Arthur’s expense. Arthur was a faithful husband (though Gwen tried to persuade him otherwise), because it was never in him to be anything else; and they were not one another’s Lancelot, or Merlin, but they did love one another, and were happy. Gwen with the assistance of Merlin contrived to get Arthur out of bed at a decent hour, and to see that he was properly done up for a feast, or a delegation, and when he came in from a ride, mussed, to the rumours of Merlin’s tryst with the lovely Githa, and sulked about as if his world had properly ended, though he had told Merlin to move on, Gwen fixed his collar with a fond look at him, and said, “You’re acting the jealous husband, Arthur. It’s very sweet, but not incredibly subtle.”

“I am _not_ jealous,” Arthur barked, just as adamantly as if he could fool her, and Gwen, satisfying herself with the collar, said, “It isn’t true, you know.”

You know, already, of the Round Table, that Arthur had determined to establish a new order, that he had challenged the contemporary concept of justice, that he knew Might was not unequivocally Right, that it did not have any claim to morality by dint of being the better swordsman, that it was not in keeping with individualism, that to follow it in blind obedience was unjust, and unkingly. And so he bade his worthiest knights to take up a new oath, to renounce their own glory, and even the glory of Camelot, and to fight in the name of mankind, to be a friend to it. There were of course places for Sir Percival, and Sir Leon, and Sir Kay, and he eagerly looked forward to the day when he could appoint Mordred. But there were two seats which remained forevermore empty, and he put on them two plaques, done up in gold, and on them were the names Sir Lancelot and Sir Gwaine, respectively.

This is Arthur’s twilight, though he does not yet know it. It was Camelot’s dawning, for the Old Magic came back with tentative hope, and the harvests burst in their stalks, and were multitudinous. And though the people did not all understand, and some of them with Uther’s old fears in their hearts took up arms against this reckless young heir, much of them prospered, and recognised their prospering; and anyway, he did have a dragon, and a very loyal sorcerer. And that is always rather difficult to uprise against. He had the Druid clans as well, who came, briefly, out of their secrecy to lay their allegiance at the feet of the mighty Emrys of prophecy; and there was some confusion during which Arthur tried to explain to them that actually he was called Merlin, and Merlin tried to explain to them that the prophecy was about Arthur.

There really were two old friends looking out over the battlements of their castle at Camelot, ‘across the purple wastes of evening’, but this was not during any lull between Gaelic Wars. They were only standing with their shoulders against one another, to have the pleasantness of the evening, and the company of one another. There was a good spring getting on, and the marigold come home to roost, and all the attendant smells, when the rain has taken the bitterness out of soil and man alike.

“Sometimes,” Arthur was saying, looking out over the lower towns, and his people, “I believe they think I can do no wrong. That I’m not a man, with flaws. And my entire reign is just me holding my breath, till I disappoint them.”

“That’s not true. You have lots of flaws, Arthur. You’re vain, arrogant, bossy, you have a difficult time saying you’re sorry, your breath smells terrible in the morning--”

“This is supposed to make me feel better?” Arthur demanded.

“--you interrupt people, you’re reckless, and you forgot my birthday,” Merlin went on, without so much as a breath.

“ _Once_ in nearly a decade, Merlin! You really need to--”

“You can be dismissive of other people’s feelings, because you never learnt how to manage your own. But for all that, you’re an honourable man, with a good heart. Camelot knows all of that, Arthur. It watched you grow up a spoiled prat, and it knows, for all that, your intentions are good, and you would die before harming it.”

And Arthur, looking at Merlin in the gentle waning of day, which the sun was being difficult about giving up, smiled and grabbed his shoulder, in a gloved hand.

“Sometimes, Merlin, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

  
  


But this is not what we mean to say. This is all gone, and incidental; the old friends are only those venerable shades of history, playing at relevancy, because we have written them down, and for the modern audience allowed them to live as no man can live outside his books. Do we not laud this crude immortality, and think it fine, and never consider what it is, to always go on? It is nothing whatsoever like the telly, where eternity is only a lot of unmarred brows, and vigorous sexuality.

Merlin was to be alone, in a way you cannot imagine. He would know two things: that everyone was to die; that he was not to die. Time would come with its unheeding bricklayers of moss and dale to go over the bones of his home, and the ash of his friends, as if they were only things to be done over, better. It was worse than to be in the cave, where you think Nimueh kept him, all those centuries. In the cave, he must have got ever so much reading done, and there is always a trickle of birdsong, and chuckling crick, since Nature employs a poor solder, and never does up its cracks properly. Probably he had a good nap, the old tutor, and then came out after it was all done, and snuffled some tears back up into him, and learnt to live with it, because he had not held all his friends in their individual times of passing, whilst his own bones were like a young willow’s, and did not bend or creak.

In order to understand the end of this, in order to understand how it could be, when it seems hardly decent, we must return, for a final time, to Morgana.

She had gone to the Druid clans, to plead clemency, and they had turned her sobbing back into the world, for her crimes against Camelot, because they were a peaceful people who could not abide what she had done, no matter its justifications. So she went beaten into the wood, like the Saxons before her, and for a time disappeared into the wilds. She lived alone in a little hut, growing into her hatred, letting it become her definition.

You must forgive us if this is a bit reminiscent of Uni, but we must for a moment say something of the Saxons. We have mentioned before the woods had outlaws in them; these were the defeated invaders which in the time of Uther Pendragon had attempted an overthrow of Britain, having no more Roman Empire to harry. Since they were not Englishman, they were barbarians, and consequently did not have any great regard for the British monarchy, and they did not like the younger Pendragon any more than the elder, for the simple matter that he was a Pendragon, and it was widely accepted among the Saxons that the Pendragons could eat a dick.

Uther had fended off the first invasion before even the conception of Arthur, so they had got ample time to birth another generation, and to put into it the bitterness of the conquered, who do not see the use for any nuance in their hatred, and turn it blindly this way and that. Morgana had become like this. It seems unfair; it seems she must have remembered they were her friends, and there was love between them. But what she remembered was that she had been alone, and frightened, until the Queen Morgause; and then a Pendragon had taken that from her as well. It is easier, far easier, to remember a bad turn than a good one; and it became, in the little hut amidst the enemies of Camelot, her evening habit to turn over the leaves of the wrongs which the Pendragon men had done her in her mind, as if it were a physical tome which she had kept and read now each bedtime.

So they found their way to one another, as the conquered do, and some time passed, until it befell that one day, when the boy Mordred, who was no longer a boy, but a full youth, set out on patrol in company of the knights. There came from the woods a striking mist, full of malevolence, as is any mist in broad daylight, and cut them off from one another, as neatly as if it were of solid brick.

And Mordred, turning about with sword in hand, his horse trembling underneath him, froze as the black head rose as if cresting a sea, and the long white arms reached out to him, and Mordred found, for a moment, something of Morgause in them, and startling himself, he wept in his aunt’s arms.

“Mordred!” Morgana breathed, with true feeling, for you remember how she had felt about him. She did not do what she did because she had grown old and hard in herself, Morgana; and I think that is the most difficult bit to swallow. Better to say that she was evil, and felt nothing in herself; better to say that there was humanity in others, in her foes, and it did not in all its mysterious movings animate her. But we have set out to rectify many a lie, and we shall not tell one in the process.

There was an antithesis to Excalibur, and it was called Clarent, and what you have heard of it is not true; it was forged in anger. It was hardened in a great hatred. Its birth was for the sole purpose to harm Arthur. It was meant to be a kingslayer, and nothing else, and this she handed up to Mordred as he re-mounted his steed, and whilst he stared at it in his hand, the mists receded, and he could hear the knights calling to him, and all the world coming back to itself.

He was meant to use it before the Saxons ever attacked, for in felling Camelot’s warrior king, the war was already half-won. We will never know why he did not. Perhaps he had no opportunity; perhaps there was not time.

Perhaps he had grown to love Arthur, just a little. It is difficult enough to take in cold blood a life we feverishly despise, and harder still when the life refuses to be comprehensively wretched, and even is kind to us, when we do not understand this, and think it some devious falsehood.

But the Saxons came on; you know this. They came on inexorably, across the lands of Britain, leaving the English children in their wake, and the horses swelling by the roadsides.

  
  


In later days, the makers of war would cower, their hands bloodied with ink, behind the Law, which had allowed them to declare battle in the first place, and in the second to send others to fight it.

But Arthur rode at the front of his men to meet it. He stayed in a tent with no grand trappings, and only a scarred table, and a bedroll for his queen and his friend.

You recall, the night before, he was sitting at this table, with his head in his hands, and pontificating on War. There were a great many struggles inside of him. He turned everything over and over, trying to find where he had done wrong. He was very old, and tired, and dripped shameless tears into his hands; but he had lived, and tried to be good. That is all we can ask of anyone.

But the Arthur of our account was only 29. He had not got any more grey hairs on his head. He consulted his Queen late into the night on the positioning of his army, and answered the messages which the pages brought to him.

He did, after Merlin and Gwen had left for a moment in order to find Gaius, inquire of a very small messenger whether or not he intended to fight, and upon the messenger’s puffed-up affirmation, asked that he live for his king; for it was all very good to die for him, when he was bigger, and there would be plenty of opportunities to do so. And the messenger was somewhat disappointed, because he had thought to make a good showing, but went off obediently behind the lines, since his king had ordered it, and he could always die valiantly at Arthur’s side some other time.

He sat for a while longer at table, twirling his pen in his hands.

Perhaps we oughtn’t to bother relating his thoughts. Mankind has been vacillating on warfare since it stepped out from its caves, and making shallow promises about its eradication. Whether we understand, or do not understand, its motives, there is war. The revelations of the youth do not alter its nature, and they have never stayed its hand.

He kept both his friends on either side of him that night. He might have had a premonition; it may have been that, aside from the general pall of war, which spares neither good nor evil, regardless of his prowess with any weapon of man, Arthur had another feeling in his bones, one which was personal, and had a sort of finality about it.

It may be that Gwen felt it too, or she had only lost enough men to war; this too we will never know. But putting him into his armour, she said, “Arthur, be careful” and cried a little into his shoulder.

He had got better at soothing her. He put his big hand, only a little clumsy, on her head, and rocked her a bit. “I will, Gwen. And I’ll be sure Merlin makes it back in one piece, though I can’t guarantee he won’t be knocked about a bit. He will be going out on a horse, which means he’ll come off it at least once.”

“Right. You’ll take care of each other, like you always do.” She sniffled, drying her eyes. It was a thing she had to believe. She had had to believe the same thing about Lancelot, that he would come back to her, and it had not worked out: but life cannot always be like that. She hugged them both, simultaneously, throwing her arms round their necks.

And then they were mounted up, and Arthur, reaching over to adjust Merlin’s helmet, touched his heels to the flanks of his horse, and galloped away into black morning.

  
  


The poet invokes a muse, because the human tongue is not enough. What can we, with dumb tongue, say of the shining masses, and the shields in rising morning, with hot flame on their breasts? We err in trying to capitulate to this sad language, and say something profound, when there can never be any reconciliation between war and mankind. They have been at odds for centuries, and stand unbridgeable. Because man wages it, and thinks he wins it, we assume it belongs to us, and we therefore have the ability to expound upon it with any rationality and realism. But war is its own beast, and always gets out from underneath us.

Say then the coming sun poured its frothing steam into the valley alight; for at least Nature in ignoring with equal derision all the terrors of mankind goes on regardless, and is conducive to a good verse. There was not any birdsong, since the avian species is a keener one than _homo sapien_ , and knows when to excuse itself.

St. Dubricius, archbishop of Legions, blessed the troops, and bade them fight for God. It is assumed the Saxons did not have any blessing, since they were barbarous, and probably heathen. This cheered some of the more devout troops, who did not believe God would let a barbarian triumph over a Briton, for obvious reasons; but there was in most of the men all the usual protests of the survival instinct. There is no man with more reasons to live than one on the battlefield; and he feels them all hotly in his breast, and perhaps a little in his eyes, if he is the emotional sort.

But Arthur only sat quietly on his horse with eyes on the enemy. He was still for his men, so that they would become still in themselves. He was under his armour only a man, and terrified. But there was none of them knew it, not even Merlin.

He let the Saxons come on, without moving, Excalibur in his left hand, and in his right his lance. The Saxons were forming themselves up into a wedge, which was their manner.

Arthur held up one gloved hand, and there sounded, from the depths of Camelot’s army, a mournful blast of the horn, which had no meaning whatsoever to the Saxons; but Arthur’s men with smooth practice found their positions behind their king, who twirled Excalibur in his hand, and giving sudden rein to his mount, burst ahead.

He was the first to touch his sword to foreign steel. The two armies met with a great crash, and points of both folded in on themselves, and were churned up in a charnel madness. The screaming began almost instantly: and in the medical tent where the wounded were to be brought, Gwen put a hand to her mouth, wondering whose cry she could not differentiate from the hellish mass.

Arthur’s lance shattered having drunk blood; and casting it aside he rode down the Saxon front line with Excalibur whirling all around him, with such dexterity it could hardly be said to have been wielded by a man. Merlin beside him, empty-handed, ripped the invaders screaming into the air, and impaled them on blade of friend and foe; he had no shield, but only the mail and helmet, and was saved from an archer by Arthur’s own shield, which he swung round with as if with seer’s eye he had watched the speeding arrow, and now having intercepted that, he shoved Merlin’s head down under an axe swing.

This disordered celerity, this titanic struggle, many-limbed, seems to have abandoned all attempt at procedure. It turns over, flails, stumbles, recovers, and shaking itself, goes to do it again. There can be no logic in this. There can be no filial respect for king and country. It must be that every man, having got himself into the thick of it, suddenly realises his error, and has now set about bashing his way out of it. But of course there are a dozen parleys of strategy all going on simultaneously, and the horns opened their shuddering throats to cry these fluctuating intentions; and the mass shifted, in whole waves or in wriggling clumps. High over-foaming the Saxon line crashed against the weary Britons; and all was lost in the surge. There were a hundred repetitions of this in a moment.

But Arthur, galloping on into the center of the wedge, untouched by man or mace, Excalibur like sunrise in his hand, pouring down its rays on helm and hauberk, gutting and moving on, opening bellies with their slippery guts down the front of him, crushing at one blow the helpless shields of his opponents, brought his men in this way out of their despair, when they had got themselves surrounded on all sides; and then Camelot’s line came on even more fiercely, this endless mass, fever-hearted, with their homeland on their lips.

“For Camelot!” Arthur screamed, to goad them on, and sheathed his sword in a Saxon’s eye.

There was something unexpected, in this early moment of the battle.

Mordred was now old enough to enter battle, and he had done so. He rode in Arthur’s personal guard. He was no Lancelot du Lac, but he was a fair hand with any blade, and redeemed any failings of his swordsmanship with his archery. He was not yet a knight, but he fought sufficiently, and did not quake before this shrieking horde. He fought with the blade which was meant to taste Arthur’s own blood, and even thrust it through the side of an enemy who had made advances upon his king. There was a rushing in his ears like a stream coming on in the full swell of spring; there was a great bloodlust upon him, and it had not even thought of Arthur. He parried a thrust from another Saxon who had tried to lop off the golden head.

And then he was stabbed.

It was very sudden; probably he would not have noticed it for some time, if it were not a mortal thrust. Arthur saw him take it, and put out his hand to grab Mordred by his sleeve as he sagged from his horse. “Mordred!” he cried out, and then the horde came on again, and he was carried away. And Mordred, almost gently, slumped with a slow surrender into the rising dust.

There was not any time to mourn; Arthur had to take it out on the man in front of him, and nearly struck off his head, which flopped backward its horrid lip, showing the man’s larynx. He turned his horse round, desperately, looking for someone else to kill, and into the front ranks there smashed a bolt of lightning, with as much devastation as the cannonballs of later eras, hurling men limbless from their steeds.

“Hold. Hold!” Arthur screamed; his own mount reared. It was battle-hardened; it was not tame to anything of this sort. Merlin’s horse nearly went over backward; he clung by some miracle to its neck, whilst Arthur struck out round him at the Saxons who saw an opportunity to disable his sorcerer. Merlin, still holding tight to his horse’s neck, its mane in his mouth, sweat in his eyes, gave a little whisper under his breath: and there rushed up a sudden gout of flame, and bubbled the enemy where they stood.

There was another bolt, from the hill behind them.   
“Morgana,” Merlin said, and that was all. He wrestled himself back into his saddle, and got the reins into proper order.

“Merlin,” Arthur called out to him. There was a lull round them, thanks to the fire, and he held out his hand. He did not say anything like good-bye; that seemed to him to invite some calamity. It seemed to him he could not acknowledge the possibility of losing Merlin, without actually losing him.

They clasped at the forearm, and nodded at one another. That was all.

And then Merlin whirled his horse, and set off at tremendous speed toward the hill, stirrups flying, bumping round messily, but holding.

  
  


What can we say of the final confrontation between Merlin and Morgana?

We can say that neither of them wanted it. We can say there was only a lot of weariness, and the dust of an old love. History has made of the sorceress Morgan Le Fay many things, but it did not make her human. It never suggested there was a heart in her, and hurt.

She did not turn to face him. She had felt him come up the cliff, and knew him by the response in her veins. She stopped with the magic uneasy in her palms.

“Morgana.” He said it hoarsely. He said it with tears in his eyes. “Don’t.”

“Merlin,” she said in the same voice, and with the same tears in her own eyes. “Uther used magic for his own gain, till it didn’t serve him anymore. Do you think he won’t do the same to you?”

“He’s not Uther, Morgana. You know that.”

She did not know this anymore. She had known it once, when Arthur was a silly boy who pinched her at feasts, because he was spoiled, and lonely. But we have each of us our own reality, which suits the objective one to greater or lesser degree. Uther had not hunted her frightened through the world, without her sister, and she had not gone weeping into her banishment expecting Uther to save her, to love her. Possibly that was Arthur’s greatest misdeed: that he had hidden Merlin at his side all along, and left Morgana to her fate.

“You’ll have to kill me, Merlin,” she said, with admirable composure, and went back to smiting Arthur’s men.

He shut his eyes. I don’t think he could have done it any other way.

Inside of him there was a gentle push, a seeking; it seemed such a small thing, for what came roaring out of him, catching her mid-strike, and with a howling of winter gales, ripping her from the hill, over its edge, onto the rocks below.

There was no scream, but only a wet _thock_.

He got onto his knees; or perhaps it is more accurate to say they got onto the rock, for he never had any say in it.

  
  


Arthur’s horse was killed under him; he got himself neatly out of the stirrups and rolled as the horse went down, coming to his feet as smoothly as if he had choreographed it. He had never lost Excalibur, and came up with it in his hand, thrusting upward, through an armoured stomach. There were three men on him at once, and he bent to heave one with an almost careless toss over his shoulder, slicing out at the one on his right, and eviscerating him; the other ran.

It is enough to say of his fighting that day that even Uther would have been proud. He killed four hundred and seventy Saxons with his own hands. There was not a scratch on him. He had shed the blood of other men, and none of his own. It coated his face, and the front of him, so that in rising up from the masses, the sword going madly all about him, he seemed otherworldly. It seems hyperbole to suggest that the struggling heaps parted before him, with the ponderous drawing back of the sea in tidal flux; but there are multiple accounts of it.

It was at dawn the Saxons fled, falling back toward the hill of their encampment, in a total rout: and from the side of Camelot went up a great cheer, and all the earth belled in sweet harmony with it.

He came to Mordred then, and took off his helmet, letting it fall. The sweat and blood made of his hair a sleek cap, almost a helm itself; but he was no longer any grave warrior. He knelt with tears in his eyes, to touch the downy cheek, only just bearded.

But Mordred had not perished at the instant of the sword stroke, and blinked now up at him, his eyes cloudy with his wound; and Arthur, knowing what the eyes meant, held the curly head in tender hands, and brought the cracked lips their last sip of water.

Why he did it, then, we cannot tell you. It must have been that, dying, he remembered his mother; dying, he remembered his duty to her. Dying, he knew only death, and its bitterness, which is conferred on all things.

Whilst Arthur was saying, “Shh, Mordred, shh, lie still,” and cupping his quivering cheek, Mordred took up the sword beside his hand, and ran Arthur through with it.

  
  


This was where Merlin found them, side by side. There was a gentleness about it, where the two mailed shoulders came together, and the dying heads softly touched. It was the sort of way in which you nod gently off to sleep after stargazing.

Mordred had gone, some time ago now. Arthur had not.

Of course he woke up. He woke up. Stories do not end that way; it is too unfair.

  
  


Merlin carried him from the battlefield, first in his arms, and then across the pommel of his saddle. He took him deep into the surrounding woods, where the fleeing Saxons had not penetrated.

And Arthur woke, whilst there was a hand busy at his brow, sponging away the sweat and blood. “Merlin!” He started up, and was stopped by his wound. He clutched at Merlin’s shoulder.

“Don’t move,” Merlin whispered; he could not get his voice to go any higher.

“No, no; it’s all right; I thought I was dead.” He smiled up out of his pain, and Merlin burst into tears.

“Arthur, I’m sorry, I’ll fix it. I was supposed to stop it. But I can, I can--”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur said, and took one of his fingers gently under the trembling chin, rubbing at the point of it. He was not so terribly conscious of his pain, then. He was only pleased they were to be together. He was only thinking there did not seem to be anything whatsoever the matter with Merlin, and that was enough. He would know before Merlin did, but not yet. “Stop what? Mordred? You tried; I didn’t listen. You forgot to add ‘stubborn’ to my endless list of flaws, apparently.”

Merlin wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I should have been there. I should have--”

“You should stop talking rubbish, Merlin, no matter how good at it you are.” Arthur brought up one of the gloved thumbs, and rubbed it gently under a wet eye, smiling with a tender disdain. “I’m not going to die, you great girl.”

“No, I know,” Merlin said, and sniffing, tried to smile. “I’m not going to let you. I never have, no matter how hard you’ve tried.” He wrapped his thin fingers round Arthur’s wrist, holding the gloved hand on his cheek, nuzzling at it, taking in the deep breaths of air which he needed to compose himself. “Gaius has been here, to examine you. He says there’s a piece of blade broken off in your chest. It was forged by magic; I can’t draw it out. I’m taking you to the Lake of Avalon, to the Sidhe. I’m going to save you, and take you home to Gwen, so she can yell at you, for scaring her. And she wields a terrific cooking pan. I’ve seen the dents to prove it.”

Arthur knew, now. Perhaps it was in the way Merlin had got to talk himself round to it; nobody babbles over a flesh wound, nor consults the immortal Fae. He went on smiling, and rubbing at the damp cheek. He thought Merlin ought not to know it, till it could no longer be denied; and then there was nothing more he could do about it.

He lay in the bracken with a great weight in his chest. It was going to be easy, to do the dying; but getting to it was a different thing altogether. He did not want any time to contemplate that he was going somewhere without Merlin, for a long while; he did not want any time to hold the trembling cheek, and to miss it.

But he mounted the horse with much assistance, saying nothing, and slumped over the mare’s damp neck, and felt himself warm in the slender arms, where he would die with the last breath in him freshly loved.

It was three days’ journey to the lake, and they had often to stop, to hide from Saxon stragglers, and for Merlin to fuss at him, and water the horse, and dab at his brow. He was loudly cheerful, Merlin: for that was how he wrote himself a different end. Arthur could do nothing but lie beside the fire, and be lifted up to have broth spooned into his mouth, and then lean back against the tree against which Merlin had propped him, letting it dissolve on his wooden tongue. He did not sleep, but only watched Merlin sleep, who could only nod off fitfully, and then jerked awake with a sudden terror that Arthur had expired immediately upon having the watchful eye taken off him.

“Come on, Arthur. You’re almost there,” Merlin would say at varying intervals, first at three days’ ride, and then a day, and then three hours. There was not any more crying from him; he had seen the green miles unfurling underneath them, and Arthur, weak but living: and what a terrible hope that inspired in him. He could not have gone on without it; but having had it, he could not later go on after losing it. We can speculate how he might have better prepared himself; but there is no other ending. He was always going to wait beyond all mortal endurance, poor Merlin.

There can be no rebuke for his caregiving; he eased the limp head up to his waiting flask, and took off the wet boots at night, to dry them by the fire; the chapped lips he wet regularly, and the sweaty brow he wiped consistently. The coat went over him when Arthur shivered, and the hands were eagerly chafed.

He thought all these things might matter.

He thought it to the very end, to the shores of the lake.

He had taken Arthur off the horse, and carried him under the armpits, as gently as he could, toward the rushes on the bank; he could see them from the trees. There was a midday sun in the lake, and the waves in tittering delight lapped the shining mud. It was just as pleasant as if they had snuck out for a fishing expedition, which makes the pleasure all the more acute.

“Merlin,” Arthur said to him, in a fleshless sort of voice.

“You’re almost there, Arthur, don’t worry, I’ve got you. Just a little farther, ok? I know it hurts, but you’re going to be all right. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Merlin,” he said, with a little more structure in it this time, and this time, Merlin could not go on chattering brightly, and looking toward the lake, and the rushes bent flat before the playful winds. He looked down into Arthur’s face.

This was when Merlin knew, but did not allow himself to know.

Arthur was grey, and the flesh round his eyes had receded, and the cheekbones sharpened, as if part of him were already trying to leave, as if it already knew; the eyes looked with a faded exhaustion into his own, and they had already given up.

Merlin thought this was the moment to rally; he thought he was going to bolster Arthur as he had always bolstered Arthur, and said with faltering cheer, “Arthur, we’re here, see, look--I’ve got you, we’re here, Arthur--”

“Merlin,” he rasped, and a hand crept over the one which Merlin had moved over Arthur’s chest, curling round it. He was so terribly tired. He was so terribly sorry. He was continuously drug on toward the rushes; he gave a slow pat of the hand. He had to do it three times, for Merlin to stop. “Just hold me, Merlin,” he said in a soothing way, as if it were Merlin who were dying, when it only felt like it, and there was health enough in him for eons.

“Arthur, we’re right here,” Merlin tried to get out, and having only got out half of it, sat down in the grass between the trees, with Arthur in his arms.

“I want to say something to you.”

“No. Not good-bye,” Merlin whispered, and let go of his silly hope, and his dumb uncomprehending cheer. He pressed his forehead to Arthur’s. “Don’t say it, Arthur.”

“No. No. Thank you, Merlin.”

“For what?” Merlin asked, for in failing Arthur, he had failed everything.

“Everything you’ve done. Everything you are,” Arthur said, and he tried to do it in the voice in which he rallied his men; but that had gone away from him. He brought up his hand to the chin, and touched it with faint and questing thumb: and Merlin, shaking, gave the slow and tremulous smile which he knew Arthur wanted for a send-off.

“There. That’s more like it,” Arthur said, smiling with all the awful tenderness in his ailing young heart. Here ended his strength: and he lay back, smiling, to die where he was most safe.

There was a tremendous sighing of wind in the trees, and diamond-shaped patterns of sunlight which did not seem to note upon what they flittered.

Merlin was only selfish some minutes after Arthur had settled into him with a sigh. He said, in a voice the wind stole away, to far lands: “Don’t leave me.” There was nothing, but only the distant creeping of the lake onto its warm shores.

“Arthur. _Arthur_ ,” Merlin whispered, and gave him a little shake.

But he had gone, as suddenly as that.

We have been told, EXPLICIT LIBER REGIS QUONDAM REGISQUE FUTURI; or: The Beginning.

But that seems a glib cruelty, to those who are left behind.


	7. Postscript

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I've had a lot of fun writing this fic. It got entirely out of hand and ended up much longer than originally intended, but that's par for the course with me, so I don't know why it surprised me. I hope you have enjoyed reading; comments, as always, are appreciated. Thank you to those of you who have already left comments and kudos, and I hope this little epilogue makes up somewhat for the ending of the last chapter.

In present day Cornwall there is a village called Altarnun on the north-eastern edge of Bodwin Moor; it is not particularly important to our story, but as its moorland encompasses Dozmary Pool, we have given it a mention. The Pool is what we are getting at. 

It is not a particularly assuming pool. There is a certain presumption of water in anything like a wetland, naturally, so the presence of a pool is nothing really to trumpet; and certainly it does not do that, being only a smooth, modest sort of thing with a little sandy shore that cannot be said to possess even an opportunity for the casual rock collector, who will put away into his pocket most anything he stumbles upon, so long as it fulfills the requirements of shininess. These are only ordinary pebbles, and the vegetation which relieves their generic presence only an ordinary grass. It is sometimes tousled by the wind, and then there is a human plaintiveness in its moaning reeds; but you have heard its like elsewhere. There is the soft and dreaming twilight upon its hectares, when unmitigating day has snuffed it, and that, perhaps, is the moment when you might believe what we have set out to tell you: for there is no mundanity in the purple gloaming. 

But for now, you shall only have to take our word for it that the Pool is quite an important fixture, or at least that it was, some years ago now.

There is still a cottage on the banks of it. It has ceded to the moss and anything else which deigns to grow on it, and can be described as a thoroughly depressed character, looking out through its dark windows upon the empty miles. This too is an ordinary cottage with some dismal thatching, and a stone exterior of some variance, which is to say its walls aspire to those lofty heights of the spectrum between ‘grey’ and ‘whitish grey’. The door has not been painted in some time. 

There is really nothing to recommend any of it; you can find a similar set-up most anywhere in Ireland, with the improvement of it being Ireland, instead of Cornwall. Some years ago, the Pool had the dubious honour of being haunted, but every windswept moor has a similar claim upon the collective consciousness, which likes its lonesome tracts to have a little murder in them. And this was only a sad bit of ghost, who never bothered anybody, but merely sat on the shores of the Pool, and sometimes looked off silently into the distance, and sometimes put his face into his hands, so he could cry.

This was a dark-haired young man who frequented the lake, but never changed, even whilst the population went on round him, so of course it was only a natural conclusion that he was haunting the lake, which as you know requires the haunter to be quite dead. The single remarkable feature of the entire scene was this: the ghost was not dead. He was Merlin. The cottage was his; and the pool was Arthur’s tomb. He had been carried into it by the arms in which he had died, and let go with much ugly weeping. It may seem a king is probably afforded a proper burial, and a very nice one, at that, with all his kingdom round him; but Merlin had carried him, already gone, to the shores of the lake by which we left them, so very long ago, and fallen onto his knees clutching his dead king: and all the Sidhe had risen to his broken howling. 

Many years ago, as you may remember, another old friend, also long gone now, spoke to him of The Once and Future King: and of course it could hardly dare to call itself a prophecy, without the Future bit. So the Sidhe bid poor Merlin to release his beloved king into the Lake of Avalon, to be healed: and then one day he would get him back, whenever it was that Albion most required him. 

And so there he had stood in the unfoamed crystal waters, and kissed the peaceful brow, and let go the stiff hands, and there he had sat down in the shallows whilst the blonde head sank slowly into depthless murk. There he was still sitting when morning came with the inexorable creeping of a morning without Arthur, insinuating itself into the timeline as if time were a thing that still went on, and would go on. 

And there on the shores he built the cottage to wait.

He buried his friends in the increments allotted by their age and physical conditioning. First Gaius, and then his mother. And after that, Sir Percival, to whom nature had not awarded a large enough heart for his noble body. Merlin himself was just the same as the day he had carried Arthur to the shores of the Lake; he was exactly the same as that precise moment, in fact, for upon releasing Camelot’s slain king into its bosom, he had stopped ageing. 

“Arthur will always need you to succeed, young warlock,” said Kilgharrah, and shortly after his king’s death gave up his own long life in the woods of Camelot, where he had gone to grieve, and was too old to weather it.

Gwen married Sir Leon some years afterward. She did not love him with youthful shout and blaze; but she loved him. And in the 67th year of her reign, the beloved Queen Guinevere, having ruled long and prosperously, in the name of King Arthur of Camelot, whose compassion had wrought the Golden Era of which the poets breathe softly on fine vellum, passed painlessly in her bed, with Merlin beside her. 

There is no immortal land, and still less are there immortal regimes, so that there came a year when, having bid all his friends good-bye, having held and rocked them into their deaths, it was time for Merlin to say farewell to Camelot as well, and he did not save it, for being deathless he knew there is always an end to everything, however much we love it. When we are young, and have not lost so very much, we think this acceptance a cowardly sort of thing, that we need only heft our sword. But of course poor Merlin no longer had the luxury of youth, and he had tried too many times, with too many failures, to cling on. 

He watched Progress come to rub away the nap of the world, and polish its corners. He watched it lay down its railroad tracks and thrust up its telegraph wires and send its children to die. He watched the Black Plague steal away millions and the Industrial Revolution obviate common man. He watched strange metal birds carry the human race, little protesting, into unknown stratums.  There is really no saying precisely how long this went on. We can only say that Arthur did not come. It must have been at least 900 years he waited, patiently, impatiently, in fevered confidence and in cold despair: and Arthur did not come. 

Sometimes on an overcast morn he walked to the edge of the Pool with his hands in the pockets of whatever jacket was then in style, and he said, “Come on, you prat,” and kicked a few of the ordinary pebbles into the water, as if that might disturb Arthur, or at least sufficiently annoy him into a comeback. These were the worst sorts of mornings, when all Cornwall was coldest and wettest and it seemed there never had been any colour in the world, and there never had been any colour in Merlin; and that was why he went to the shore of the Lake and believed in a man who had died a millenium before, because when there is a good rain we must know something lies beyond it, and will come for us. Generally he tried several different insults, and when the Lake said nothing, and the wind only sighed in a resigned sort of way, he said, “ _ Please _ , Arthur” and wept into his sleeve with a painful hiccuping because the tears ought to have long passed out of him, and finding themselves trapped, they liked to punish him. He was sometimes sick into the grass, and then on an empty stomach he was a little more clear-headed, and could make himself all sorts of promises about walking into the water, without turning round. It was all very Victorian gothic, and probably contributed to the legends of his haunting. 

When the guns of August opened their throats to sound the knell of humanity, he thought Arthur would come. All through the terrible fizzling of the gasses, and the screaming of the horses, he thought Arthur would come. And when the Austrian called Hitler took his hatred and proselytised it and the children crawled naked into the ovens of Treblinka, he thought Arthur would come.

And Arthur never did.

It is a very disappointing end. How empty is the hope of a hopeless man, who had one thing for which to live.

Probably that was why, in 1947, Merlin laid down one evening, and did not get up again. We do not mean to say he died: he couldn’t do that. It was the one thing he couldn’t do, which seems very freeing, till you realise it was the only thing he wanted to do. He was simply tired; he did not think it anything more than an ordinary tiredness. But he did not get up. The shadows lengthened over his young cheeks and the cobwebs spun between his fingers their shivering villages, and beyond the window the Pool lay quiet in itself, and the wind sent its bursts to shake the equable surface--and perhaps that might have done it, if this were any other story. But you have got to be patient. He was always very terrible at waking up. 

In the Dozmary Pool there is a reflection that suggests it has a bottom like any other lake, and is limited; you can see at some points the ordinary silt of lakes, distorted beneath that strange confluence of water and the fallible human eye, which always contrive to tell you all sorts of things, most of them untrue. But this is not quite correct, otherwise Arthur would have been dredged up years ago by some intrepid fisherman or geologist, pristine in his mail and cape, and that would be somewhat awkward. We cannot say exactly where he laid at rest. Possibly it did not even exist until the moment it needed to. We can only say he was there, somewhere, as serene as if he were only having a luxurious lie-in, and at some future moment would stretch out his toes, kneading the air with them, and sit up in order to demand his breakfast.

We must mention something else, before we get on with it.

When the sorceress Morgana died, she did not return her mortal bones to this earth of undiscerning soil. She had a great penance to do. She was taken into the Lake, and the arm of white samite, and the noble moniker of Lady--these were hers. Fate is not entirely blind to poetry, and liked the tidiness of having her preside over Arthur, till it was his time to rise. Of course she was not amenable to this, for a while; but there was a stillness to the lake that ordered her tumultuous breast, and as he was unable to talk and muff it up, she came by degrees to see that she had wronged him, and to mourn it. And then it was that she forgave herself. And perhaps this was why it took so long: because she had come back to loving him, and could not release him. 

But it is not that sort of story either. Let it not rest bitter in the hearts of men, who have come on in spite of the ovens, and the fizzling gases, and believe not in the goodness of the collective soul: but in the individual hero, who never has failed them yet. History has always sent out the extraordinary few, in spite of their odds.

Morgana was like a mother with her firstborn, when she felt the Time upon her. She did not think there was any safer place for Arthur, than close at her bosom. She did not have any hands with which to stroke the sleeping face; the arm in white samite is a mirage. Morgana was the essence of the Lake itself, and closed herself about him, golden and hazy. It seemed that in this way she might be able to keep him, untouched, untouchable. She had seen how easily he loved. She had seen how easily it turned on him. She did not want to let him go into what the world had become. Perhaps she was not wrong; but we cannot keep anything close at our breast.

It is most accurate to say that the stasis in which Arthur existed was a sort of dreaming, and like the dreamer who lies insulated from the material world, he was unaware of anything beyond the consciousness of his unconscious mind. Here he did not know about his death, and he did not know about the untold years which had laid down their bones at the New Year. He did not hear it when Merlin came to the shores of the Lake, and called out for him. He did not hear it when Merlin had wept everything out of him, and sat quietly in the mud, telling him the fantastical unfantasy of the steel birds. He went on obliviously, in this distant land. There was sometimes the stink of dying horses, and their railing cries, but mostly there were the nonsensical segues in which we get from lawless orgy to filing paperwork. They were all the ordinary sorts of dreams. He gave a speech without his trousers, and yelled at Merlin for forgetting to put them on. Sometimes he was only playing the unnamed ball game (of the non-sexual variety) with his knights, and was no more pleased to see Gwaine and Lancelot than any of the others, since he had forgotten they were dead; and he was even at least mildly annoyed because Gwaine sometimes made better passes than him, and then got one of Merlin’s smiles. 

He once attended the wedding of Lancelot and Gwen, and then he felt that something was wrong, in the way that sometimes the insulation is punctured, and our conscious mind says to us a thing is wrong, and did not happen in the way we are imagining; but he could not put his finger on it, and was too pleased to further pursue it.

If it all seems very pleasant, if it seems he whiled away his centuries quite gently, we must disabuse you of the notion. For in the same way there are dreams from which we never want to wake, there are ones which we are jolted out of, for our own sanity: and Arthur had these as well, and never could wake, and sometimes they would last, by our calculations, for decades. Time is a strange concept, and he did not have to obey our fancies of it. So it was sometimes that he fought the Battle of Camlann for ten years, and he did not breathe unblooded air. He had the strange helplessness of dreamers, who suddenly yield all their waking strength, and become the passengers of their own fates, and then he would have to hold Merlin whilst he died, or sometimes to watch the medical tents where Gwen worked on dying men overrun, and its inhabitants impaled on Saxon steel. 

But it was not always like that, as we have said. It was not often like that, except whilst he was in the midst of it, and then it seemed that it had always been like that. Mostly Merlin called him a lot of unfair names, and they never did achieve great deeds, but lazed about in the foaming heather, holding hands. He had an embarrassing amount of congress with Merlin. We have put it politely, because his dreams really were quite despicable, and probably none of us could afterward look ourselves in the eye. He was mostly at ease, and slept unruffled, which makes the fate of Merlin all the more inhuman. He had the same sort of dreams, and had to wake up, and remember. He was always coming out of the lovely amnesia of sleep into cold morning, before it has even blushed at its boldness, and gotten on with it. It was worse to forget he was alone, for a while, and then to know it all over again. He expected great things of Arthur, to whom death ought to be only a little hiccup; and when he stayed dead like any ordinary man, it was nearly unbearable: and yet he had got to bear it, because that was the fate which Destiny had foretold. It must have seemed very romantic to Destiny; but for Merlin it was only a lot of cold bedsheets, and tea for one. 

So as we have said, Merlin laid down one day, and never did rise. And that was the end of it, for some time. His magic kept the cottage preserved, though it was a bit more dusty than usual, and a number of insects had the run of the place. There were some intrepid visitors who wanted to poke round it from time to time, who had the feeling, as they approached the door, that they wanted to be elsewhere; not in the eerie manner of the feeling, but simply with a gentle push were the adventurers suddenly reminded they had the shopping to do, or had left the kettle on. It wouldn’t do to sow menace about the place, since then the tourists would have got wind of it, and swarmed its haunted corners, hoping for something sexy like a demon. 

But of course this could not persist, and Morgana knew it. She had heard all the entreaties Arthur had missed. She did not really have anything against Merlin; she knew he had killed her because it was the thing to do, and did not bear him any ill will. It had prickled in her, that Arthur had kept him safe at his side, and abandoned her to the world; but she did not really consider that a thing for which Merlin could be blamed, and there was still in her the notion that he had to be protected, on account of his somewhat hapless resting face. It was therefore a rough millenium (or thereabouts), for she had got to lie quietly unrippling whilst he cried on her shores, and begged to be given what she could not give. Sometimes she had a little nudging, and then she might have called to Arthur, and perhaps woken him; but she did not. This happened perhaps three times throughout the years, and was never anything she could not ignore, till finally the nudge became persistent, and was nearly painful, if magical waters can feel pain. 

She looked into the sleeping face of Arthur. She looked into the peaceful slumber which in the light of the Lake was a sort of gilding, and softened him back to his teenaged years. She felt herself very old in comparison to him. It was known to her, in that moment, that when she released him she released herself, and would vanish after her friends long gone, to a place she did not know, and could not fathom. The Lake would be only a lake. The Sidhe had long gone already; and when Arthur did, it would be her turn as well. 

She closed the waters about him a final time, which under her ministrations were tepid as Mediterranean shallows, and bore no resemblance to these cold crypts of British lochs. He must have felt himself very loved, wherever he had gone.

And then he heard her calling to him, as on a soft wind. This was an Outside noise, and he might have balked at it. But he heard in it the warm tenderness of a friend he did not recognise, and he came, at last, gently awake.

You must not suppose anything that followed was half so gentle. He was at the bottom of a lake, after all. When he opened his eyes to the golden waters, he had a moment of disorientation in which he blinked, and that was all. And then he suffered the natural human inclination to breathe, and opened his mouth.

The light which had been the presence of Morgana went. There was only a depthless grey about him. And then the water was in him, and all about him, and his lungs tried to reject this, and were thwarted, and he rose, floundering, from the bottom. He had to make his ascent in full mail and cape, which tangled about him, and frustrated the motions of his arms. He had the same sensation as when you have swallowed something wrong, and it has gone into your sinuses, and then the only thing to do is die. But of course he was made of a bit sterner stuff than you. There was a good panic in his chest whilst he tried to find the surface, but he had accomplished far more difficult feats while similarly frightened, and even looked dashing during the execution of them. He swam till he was exhausted; and then he went a bit beyond that. He had lost that cocoon of dreaming and all his true life rushed in on him, so that he was aware of his death, and desperate to leave it behind him. He thought he was swimming toward something. He thought beyond the lapping waves his kingdom waited in patient frieze, and his friends.

He was not dashing when his head broke the water. He immediately went back under. He struggled above once more, coughing as if he had decided it necessary to expel his lungs. The mailed arms stroked the water wearily; if he had not been young, and strong almost beyond the strength of mortal men, he would have never made the shore. 

But he struck out for it. He swam a wooden sort of fatigue into all his aching limbs, and with the last of their endurance, pulled himself into the mud, and the grass bracketing it. There he lay for quite some time, vomiting up the lake. 

There was a soft evening sky over him, and no one to observe. The wind had not got up, and left him to his current misery without seeing the need to enhance it. When he had done being sick, he rolled onto his back, and saw up into the evening sky, and over the treeless meadows before him. 

This was when he knew he had not got any friends waiting for him. He knew in the transformation of the landscape that there had been no insignificant number of years between his death and rebirth; there was a sense of alienness he could feel instantly, not just in the bare fields, lonely for shade of a poplar, but in the very sensation of the earth underneath him. Sometimes it is like that. Sometimes you can simply feel when you are home, and when you are not.

It cannot be said how long he laid in the grass, clutching his heaving chest. There were sometimes strange shapes in the sky, which could not be birds; and in the darkening distance, he could see sticks thrusting up from the ground, and between them something which seemed to him a sort of thread. There was nothing familiar to him. There was a structure, some ways from him: and even that was nothing like the homes of his contemporaries, since it had been constructed in the 19th century, to replace the ones which had wore out before it. 

I don’t think he did not weep because he was not capable of it; rather it was a thing too big for weeping. He had got the breath knocked out of him. It struck him that he had come into the world with the usual ignorance of any newborn, friendless, groundless. It took him some time to realise that if the rest had gone, Merlin had as well, because he did not want to realise it; and then he thought that he must scream or something, in order to castigate the world and all its unfair turns. But he had no heart for this. He only laid in the mud. He was almost confused. There was a part of him that thought the world could not have really gone on, without Merlin.

It was getting on toward true evening when he could finally sit up. He pulled off his boots, and shook out the weeds. It was a dim winter evening, without snow; but it was threatening it, and brought him out of his stupor. Having nowhere else to turn, he went to the cottage.

In front of it there was a strange wheeled contraption, made of steel, which he circumvented, eyeing it suspiciously. He stepped up to the door, and knocked at it, though it seemed there could not have been anyone home, it had such a desolate look to it. Still, he waited the appropriate amount of time, and even called out, “Hello?” whilst shivering on the step. He really could have lovely manners, despite what most of his interactions with Merlin might have suggested.

After the appropriate interval, he knocked again, and then trying the handle, found that the door swung in without any resistance whatsoever. There was something in the magic that had recognised him, and wanted him to feel welcome. He called out, “Hello?” once again as he came into the sitting room with its unlit fireplace and scarce furniture. It was all very sad-looking. There was something in his chest that told him to go on, through the little kitchen, past a strange loo with a tub of some white substance, and a lidded seat that grew up, out of the queer cobblestoned floor; he came to a shut door, and tapped at it. It was superfluous, considering the response which entering the cottage, and shouting all throughout it, had elicited. But he felt it was the done thing, and waited politely, and then, having heard nothing, pushed open the door.

Doubtless there were things which would have struck him, had he noticed them. Merlin had updated the interior as the times befitted, and it must have all been very scandalous, to a medieval man. But he did not notice them. He saw the bed, and the man in it. He gave a startled laugh; he was so overwhelmingly delighted, he rushed at the bed without remarking the cobwebs, or the stillness of its inhabitant. He had thought to tip Merlin out of it, rudely, and then to do something embarrassing, like cry on his shoulder. But standing over it now he saw the things which had come to roost on the still face, and the pale unflickering lids, seeing far away. 

He thought Merlin was dead. It was not an absurd conclusion to draw, considering, but he had come all this way, and might at least have checked before working himself into a drama. But then if he hadn’t fallen down like a gobshite, and laid his head on Merlin’s chest to weep, he wouldn’t have felt it rising under his ear; he wouldn’t have heard the breath in soft unlaboured whisper through the nose.

He pulled back. There was something very hard in his throat. He felt for a moment he was dying all over again, or being born; there is nothing so very different in either. 

He did not know when he was; he did not understand the strange loo or the metal box in the kitchen. But he knew how to sort this kind of situation. He stroked the hair out of Merlin’s eyes; it was a bit longer now, and curled some round his ears. There was a shadow of dark stubble on his chin, though there the magic had halted it, so that it seemed only a day or two he had missed his razor, since to have grown out a scraggly beard, all down his chest, would have ruined the aesthetic. (Though it ought to be noted that Arthur would have kissed him anyway, even if the beard had food in it, and all the other sorts of things beards inevitably collect.)

“Merlin,” Arthur called to him, hoarsely. He touched one of the scratchy cheeks. He felt it with his thumb, and touched the dark eyelashes, softly. He leant down to kiss the unmoving lips.

Merlin had felt something when the cottage door opened. It was probably the sort of nudge Morgana had gotten, in the beginning, and so he frowned at it, but did not let himself become overly concerned. He lay with his hands folded on his stomach.

But when Arthur came into the room he recognised a certain presence touching the peripheral of his consciousness. He could not name it; but he felt a tenderness toward it. He felt there was a reason to get up now. He was in the grip of all this whilst Arthur knelt at his bedside, and he had reached the apex of it when Arthur leant in to kiss him. He came abruptly out of his sleep, before the trembling mouth could touch his own, and sitting bolt upright, cried, “Arthur!”, flailing out one of his arms. 

It struck Arthur across the face. It was a sound blow, and knocked him to the floor.

Merlin rolled off the bed. He landed across Arthur’s legs, limply, and sort of stuck there, bracing himself on his hands over Arthur’s dazed face. “Sorry; my leg’s asleep.” That was the first thing he said to a man for whom he had waited a millenium. 

And the man for whom he had waited a millenium said, “Merlin, you  _ idiot _ ,” and attacked him. 

So it must have seemed to Merlin for a moment, since Arthur without any warning flung himself forward, and kissed every bit of his face. He even got Merlin’s eyes, which Merlin closed hastily so he wouldn’t ruin the mood by letting Arthur kiss his eyeball instead of his eyelid, which probably would have felt a bit like romancing a peeled grape, and spoilt the whole reunion. Arthur went breathlessly round clockwise, and then the other way, holding Merlin’s cheeks in his hands. Merlin tried valiantly to keep up, but had started to cry, messily; for a moment he had the shock to keep him steady, and then when the same rough palms he had known and never forgot took his face into them, and the damp familiar body pushed up against him, and he was not alone, all the long and dragging centuries came down on his head, and buried him. 

They fell backward in a tangle, with Arthur’s arms round the heaving back. He had the breath knocked out of him by one of Merlin’s elbows as they came down on the wooden floor, Merlin sprawled on top of him. 

But Arthur did not give him any grief, and only laid down some fierce kisses against the side of his head, whilst Merlin shook against his shoulder. He tried, almost beyond the bounds of human possibility and flexibility, to draw Merlin closer to him. He did not call him a girl, or anything dismissive like that; in fact he was a little misty himself, and pressed his face into the curling hair, and took up fistfuls of the thin shirt Merlin had on, as if bunching it in his hands could bring Merlin more solidly into his arms. There did not seem enough of Merlin to hold. It seemed inadequate, to get his arms round the shivering back, and to call it good. He bumped his nose against Merlin’s when Merlin turned his face to seek out Arthur’s. They pulled and grabbed at one another, and dug in with their fingers, and pressed their foreheads together, and kissed till they couldn’t anymore, and had to fall back panting. Then they did it again, with no finesse, bumping their noses, bumping their teeth, gasping into each other things we won’t repeat, since it would embarrass Arthur, who completely forgot himself and did all sorts of terrible things like rubbing his nose against Merlin’s and kissing his forehead and kissing the bridge of his nose, and stroking the bones of his cheeks, and many other rubbish things besides. He forgot Merlin was a snotty, weepy mess, and kissed him again. 

They were finally more permanently out of breath, and lay cosily snarled in one another, gasping as if they had only just finished a marathon. Merlin after some time lifted his head, and sliding up the hand he had left on Arthur’s chest, said, as if he had only just noticed it, “You’re all wet.”

“I climbed out of a lake. It’s to be expected.”

And Merlin, turning to him with a brilliant smile, said, “I have something to show you” and took him into the strange loo, and introduced Arthur to indoor plumbing. 

It was almost a sexual experience, and overcame the brief disappointment that the thing which Merlin had intended to show him was not his penis. Arthur sank into the warm waters, and made a sound that embarrassed Merlin, who had not had any lascivious thoughts whatsoever (except perhaps a fleeting one), even with Arthur’s tongue in his mouth. He had been too occupied with the act of being emotionally overcome to think about Arthur in a lewd way, and now that he was naked it was suddenly harder (pun intended) to think of him in any other way.

But Arthur draped his hand over the side of the bath, looking for Merlin’s, and then they sat whilst he soaked with their fingers intertwined, and Merlin had the choking sensation in his throat once more, and mostly forgot (or at least temporarily put away) the observation that 900 years in a lake had not done anything untoward to Arthur’s arse. 

Then he helped Arthur, who was almost nodding off on Merlin’s shoulder, into the soft trousers he favoured for sleeping, and a nightshirt he buttoned up whilst Arthur stared at him in a softly admiring way, and smiled.

It may seem that after so long they fell into one another’s arms and fucked with wild abandon, or at least with the tender exhaustion of the emotional bruising they had each taken. But returning from the dead is exhausting business, and Arthur fell asleep at the kitchen table whilst Merlin was putting together a light supper for him, and had to be shaken awake, and led off to the bed. There they crammed in together, and Arthur pulled the covers and one of Merlin’s arms over him, and promptly fell into a sound sleep. It may surprise you to learn that Arthur was the little spoon.

Do not feel too disappointed about the whole affair; they were still two young men who had loved one another a very long time, without doing anything dirty about it.

  
  
  


Next morning they had breakfast, which was the full traditional fare, since Merlin had got to flounder round for quite some time unsure what to do with himself without a rich tosser to take care of as if he hadn’t got any arms of his own, and now felt himself back in his element. There were bacon and poached eggs, buttered toast, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, bangers, and of course, tea, which Arthur sniffed at with some mistrust, till the Englishman in him asserted its natural right, and he had three mugs. 

Arthur finished only half his breakfast on account of becoming distracted by the nape of Merlin’s neck whilst Merlin was pottering about the stove, fussing with various skillets. He abandoned his plate (but finished off his tea) and came up behind Merlin to kiss the pale neck after a moment of dithering, since some of his ridiculousness had returned now that he was not in the first flush of their reunion. He liked where the hair kicked up off it, and put his nose into it, and even slipped his arm round Merlin’s waist, as if they were boyfriends having a quiet domestic moment instead of idiots. Then the kissing of the neck ventured into more serious territory, and there was some biting, which Merlin heartily approved, and almost put his hand down on the skillet with the sausage in it in the rush of his approval. 

Arthur turned him round so they could make fools of themselves, grabbing at each other’s shirts and necks and kissing as if they were each trying to swallow the other first, whilst the sausage burnt mournfully. Merlin gasped, “Wait, wait,” while Arthur sucked on his neck, trying to grope about behind him to turn off the hob, which he found now to be an action of insurmountable complexity. He had to push Arthur away for a moment, to manage it. His usefulness seemed to be directly proportionate to whether or not Arthur’s cock was pressed up against him.

When they were not in immediate danger of burning to death, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s hair in his hand, and yanked his head back. This was agreeable to Arthur, in the most understated sense of the thing; he let out a noise that Merlin thought was very obscene, and pushed his hips into Merlin’s, and then for a moment there was a question of whether or not they could make it to the bedroom, or if the table needed to be cleared. They stumbled into it, trying to take off each other’s shirts whilst still kissing. The crockery in a temper rattled churlishly. 

They did make it to the bedroom, barely. They did not manage to divest themselves of any more clothing than was necessary for their burning loins to be in direct contact. Arthur pushed Merlin down onto the bed, and fell somewhat gracelessly on top of him. He pushed one hand up under Merlin’s shirt, to feel his belly flinching in hard breath, and with the other yanked down his trousers.

It is finally the bit with the porn, so you may either look away or lean forward, as your personal morals dictate. 

They crawled up the bed only as far as necessary so that Arthur’s feet did not hang off the end, and flail about awkwardly. Probably we ought to employ a bit of nice prose, and put a fine bow on the whole interaction, which was long in coming (winky face); but it was not that sort of sexual act. We are afraid we cannot make it particularly pretty. They did not even get off their trousers, but only pushed them out of the way, and the same with the undergarments to which Arthur was still adjusting. Arthur kissed at Merlin’s chin in a sloppy way, too overwhelmed to aim properly, and get his mouth. He shivered when everything superfluous was out of the way, and he could feel the soft hot skin of Merlin’s bare cock against his own. It drove him nearly mad, actually. He trailed just barely touching along it for a moment, and in his belly there was something liquid, and strikingly warm, and then he lowered his full weight onto Merlin, who had thrown his head back onto the pillow, and thrust his hips down into Merlin, who thrust his hips up into Arthur, and that was it. Arthur could feel the slick head against his own, all the shivery friction of this, the heaving of Merlin’s belly against him, the quivering thighs underneath him, and farther up the long throat, exposed, working convulsively; he pinned Merlin down by the wrists and tongued him in a filthy, despicable way, without trying to make it nice for either of them, and in doing so somehow making it indescribably good for them both. They slid against one another and groaned into one another’s shoulders and then went back to kissing whilst their hips feverishly worked, and the tension in Merlin’s quivering thighs pulled them rigid.

It did not last very long. Arthur let out a rough breath, bit at Merlin’s shoulder, and came in a warm rush over his stomach. Merlin arched up with a little cry, and shuddered, with his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, for a long while; and then they collapsed into a sticky mess, almost wheezing. 

Afterward Arthur wanted another bath, which did not contribute overly much to any sort of cleanliness, since they both got into it, and in order for them to fit, Merlin had to lie on top of Arthur, with his knees bracketing Arthur’s thighs. They accomplished nothing more than sloshing a lot of water over the side, and discovering that Arthur liked it when Merlin blew a hot breath over his nipple, with his lips hovering at a tantalizing distance where they did not touch anything, but hinted aggressively at the possibility of touching it.

Arthur had more tea.

When evening had once again gathered with vague menace at the windows, they got into the bed. They did a thing that was like spooning but was actually known as manly time lounging. (Even if Merlin did lay his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur did rest his chin on Merlin’s head.)

“What happened to Gwen?” Arthur asked, quietly. The rain had started with a gentle admonition at the windows, asking first politely, and then more insistently, to be let in. 

“She was the best person you could have chosen for queen,” Merlin said, running his hand absently back and forth over Arthur’s stomach, just above the waist of his trousers. “She lived...she lived a very long time. She went…” And here he had to stop, as if centuries had not interceded between this memory, and the reality of the withered hand in his own, going steadily more cold. “...quietly. In her bed. She wasn’t in any pain.”

Arthur swallowed. “Good.”

“She married Sir Leon, years after you died.”

“What? Sir  _ Leon _ ?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, and smiled a little now. “He had an awful crush on her. I don’t know how you didn’t see it, even as thick as you are.”

“I always thought if he were amorous toward anything, it was the stick up his backside.”

“He wasn’t a bad sort. He was good to her, and she loved him. Not like she loved Lancelot, but she was happy. She persevered. As she did.”

Arthur put his hand into Merlin’s fringe, and rubbed at his forehead for a bit, staring up at the ceiling. “You were right about Mordred.”

“I was right about lots of things.”

“Don’t be smug.” He gave the forehead a little swat. “I just...I don’t understand  _ why _ . I thought he was my friend. I thought you had to be wrong.” Merlin could hear there was a little break in this. It was all just new to Arthur. He had gone into the Lake, and come out as if it were only the day afterward. 

“Maybe he was just playing the role he had to, for fate.”

“Is that why you’re still here?” He did not look at Merlin as he said it. There was a solemn contradiction in the hand on his stomach, and the head on his shoulder; but it cannot be said we ever get over a parent easily. He did not believe anyone could have endured what Merlin had come through, for a thing like him.

“I’m still alive because it’s my destiny. I’m still here, in the same home I’ve kept for centuries, on the shores of the last place I saw you, because of you, Arthur.”

The thumb stopped on Merlin’s forehead; Arthur looked down at him as Merlin shifted to look up at him. It was a moment before Arthur could ask. “How long have you been here?”

“I dunno; I’m not sure what year it is now. But I’d guess...close to 900 years. Or something like that.”

“Are you  _ daft _ ?” Arthur snapped. “Why didn’t you...why didn’t you go somewhere else?”

“I did, for short periods of time. Sometimes. To visit my mum, or treat a patient. But I was afraid to leave for too long; I didn’t want you to be alone. The Sidhe told me you’d return. Only I didn’t know it was going to take so long, you lazy sod.” He wanted to be lightweight about it, and even smiled; but Arthur was looking at him as if Merlin had done something unforgivable to him. 

“Why did you do that? Why didn’t you--did you think I wouldn’t manage to find you, wherever you’d wandered off to?”

Merlin reached up to touch his chin. “That was almost romantic, Arthur.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur demanded, ducking his head down to kiss the fingers that brushed the edge of his jaw.  And then: “So Camelot--Camelot is--”

“It’s gone, Arthur. Everything’s gone, except me. It’s just what happens.”

It was a long while Arthur needed, to absorb that. He lay no longer stroking the forehead, but simply staring up at the ceiling, whilst the rain with cheerful ignorance banged on steadily.

  
  
  


This went on two weeks. Merlin occasionally made some noise about venturing into the nearby village, to see what year they had emerged into, and then Arthur would make his own noise that sounded similar to acquiescence, and then do something like push Merlin down onto the sofa, or blow him in the kitchen. He was surprisingly amenable to being on his knees. He did not have much of a gag reflex, and liked to demonstrate this often, in order to emphasise yet another physical superiority. Merlin was too busy biting his wrist to protest Arthur’s egotism. 

Arthur, they learnt, was a bit of a tart. In addition to an almost alarming enthusiasm for putting Merlin’s cock into his mouth, he was open to almost any suggestion, at any time of the day. None of the furniture was safe from his experimentation. The kitchen table was despoiled on the second day; the bath you already know about. On the third they had a nice wank in the shower, where Arthur stroked Merlin with a leisurely touch that seemed in total ignorance of how badly Merlin would like to come, and how little time was actually required for the water to turn a very non-flattering sort of cold. 

Merlin was not much less demure, and let Arthur fuck him over the kitchen table, and the armchair, and the side of the bath, and the edge of the bed, and also on the floor in every room, and once against the wall out back when they had gone out to have a relaxed cuppa in the soggy garden. He was so enthusiastic about the entire business that Arthur decided he wanted a go at being penetrated. It did not begin very promisingly; Merlin kissed all the places Arthur liked best to be kissed, and ran his tongue over them, and with a maddening luxury took Arthur into his mouth, feeling with his tongue round the head, and along the underside of it, till Arthur’s thighs trembled and there was a terrible lot of hot whiteness against his eyelids, and gathering in his belly. Then Merlin slid a slippery finger into him. It was underwhelming. It was like having a finger in his arse. He supposed Merlin was only so loudly pleased about it owing to his immeasurable skills in the art of tupping. It was to be expected that he was better at it than Merlin.

And then Merlin shifted about, and Arthur’s thighs spasmed, and he slammed his head back into the pillow, and bit his tongue. Merlin slid the hot mouth over him, till he could feel himself in the wet spasming of the throat, and the finger fluttered once more, in the same spot, and he gasped out, “ _ Merlin _ ” and came till he was dizzy. 

From then on he generously allowed them to trade off, and sometimes even volunteered to bottom, out of a great kindness of heart. On lazy mornings when the sun could not be persuaded into an appearance and there was the grey wooliness of a sullen overcast, he did not bother removing everything, but only took off his trousers and climbed onto Merlin to work them both into a leisurely orgasm. 

But this could not go on forever; they were running out of food and tea.

“I don’t see why you can’t just magic up more food,” Arthur complained one morning whilst Merlin sorted through his jackets for one Arthur’s shoulders could abide.

“You don’t want to eat magical food, trust me. Here, try this.” In 1947 men’s casual attire was a whole affair we would now consider formal wear, so they both had on some nice trousers, long-sleeved shirts which Merlin’s magic had ironed, and even ties. Arthur did not understand how to do up his own, and continued to complain whilst Merlin did it for him, and then attempted to use Merlin’s to reel him into a kiss. Merlin ducked away from him. “Ah, ah, no.”

Because they did not know about the internet, they thought they had tried most types of sex by this point, but Arthur was willing to determine whether or not they could invent any new forms, or at least to perfect the old favourites. He said, like a liar, “I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“Right.” Merlin gave his tie a little tug, and stepped back, satisfied. “Last time you said that, I could hardly walk for a whole day.” He tucked in Arthur’s shirt.   
When they stepped out into the weak sunlight Arthur, having hesitated only a moment, took Merlin’s hand in his. And Merlin, having squeezed it only a moment, instantly disentangled their fingers. This was offensive to Arthur, or at least he told himself it was offensive, when actually it had hurt him. 

Merlin must have felt it; he had never lost the most important bits of himself to bitterness. Perhaps that was why Destiny had chosen him. “We can’t hold hands in the village, in front of anyone.”

“What? Why not?”

“It’s illegal.”

“It’s illegal to hold hands in a village? What kind of rubbish law is that?”

“It’s illegal for men to do what we’ve been doing the last couple of weeks, or at least it was last I knew. We’ll just have to be careful about it.”

“You mean I came back from the  _ dead  _ for you, and we still have to tiptoe round?”

“You didn’t come back from the dead for me, you came back for Albion.”

Arthur, frowning off over the meadows, said only, “Don’t be absurd, Merlin,” because it did not seem to him he could have come back for any other reason.

As the weather had elected to cooperate, they walked into Altarnun rather than take the car (which Arthur still suspected), their shoulders brushing, but their hands safely in their pockets. They had a few stares for being so natty, but had a good lunch in peace, and let their knees bump under the table. They discovered it was the year 2015, that Arthur liked cream tea even better than plain (and demanded it for his afternoon repast with such consistency that Merlin was quite soured on strawberry jam in general), that people now kept their phones in their pockets, the telly was in colour, that most any knowledge could be had from something called a ‘google’. 

Merlin took Arthur to see London, and to become reacquainted with it himself. Arthur whinged most of the drive about the car, and barked at Merlin to slow down, and wanted to know why there was no sane man still using horses, as he had seen them often in the fields, and then demanded to drive the car himself, since he was sure Merlin couldn’t possibly be managing it properly, and then they had to go on excruciatingly, whilst Arthur stalled it every few feet, and the motorists swerved round them with blaring horns and not a few unkind words. When he had got the hang of it, he was like a madman, and blasted along the motorway with no sense of mortality (though his sense of direction was irreproachable), and could not be persuaded to slow down till he realised Merlin was properly terrified, and felt guilty, even if Merlin was being quite a girl about the whole thing.

They bought iPhones in London; Arthur squinted at his like an old man and made Merlin show him how to do everything. There was more period appropriate clothing acquired from a variety of shops, and then put on back at the hotel, in between having it all taken off. They went about with colourful tourist maps, and had fantastic rows about which tube stop to get off at, and then Merlin would say something like, “Well, I’m only 900, what would I know” and Arthur would snap, “Just as much as you did when you were 29, apparently” and they would alight at Arthur’s chosen stop, and Merlin would carry about his knowing look whilst Arthur consulted his map with increasing agitation, and then there would be another row about the degree of Arthur’s incorrectness, which could hardly be absolute, and then he would feel like rubbish, and buy Merlin some little trinket, usually food, and Merlin, trying not to laugh, would say, “You know, it would be cheaper just to say you’re sorry.”

“I don’t understand; is that a word you’ve made up?” Arthur snapped, because he was not ready to be laughed at, and Merlin would go on cheerfully eating whatever it was Arthur had bought him, and ribbing him, till Arthur kicked the back of his calf, but only a playful little tap, to show he was not trying to be mean, and then it was back to the hotel to have sex on every available surface. 

They discovered it was not illegal to hold hands in a village, and in fact they could be married, if they liked. Merlin let out a ‘huh’; he had never in all his centuries known such a laxness. He returned to watching cat videos.

“You can be married?” Arthur asked. He was suddenly utterly alert. He had been idly looking over Merlin’s shoulder from time to time, in between pages of the novel which Merlin had given to him, in order to help his grasp of modern English. It was not, perhaps, the best way of easing one in, since Merlin had given him Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables’, but he had an unyielding faith in Arthur’s cleverness, even if he could never admit that to Arthur. And there was the Waterloo bit, and the smoking barricades, which ought to help him muddle through.

“Yeah. Says so on Wikipedia.” Merlin had a fixation on this Wikipedia that Arthur was not in full support of, since sometimes he would ignore Arthur in order to click through articles on events which he had lived, to see how these modern people had summarised them. Sometimes he made disapproving noises, and this meant he took umbrage with the sequence of events, and was about to edit it with a snippy footnote. “Why are you so intolerably... _ dorky _ ?” Arthur would ask, having learnt the word from a conversation he had overheard in a cafe, and Merlin would protest, “I’m an academic!” and then there would be a mild row and that would devolve into a wrestling match, and from there into snogging, and so on.

Arthur now played with the book in his hands. “Have you ever been married? In all this time?”

“Hmm? No.”

Arthur played with the book a little more. He was sweating a bit. The announcement had tightened something in his stomach, and made him feel a little light-headed. He was the monogamous sort, and liked to be official about it. But you have seen that it was Gwen who needed to propose to him, and how he was nearly utterly useless in getting across his feelings to Merlin. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to be?”

“What?” Merlin asked, tearing himself away from youtube to blink at Arthur. “What did you say?”

“I  _ said _ , Merlin, would you like to be? Married...that is.” His irritation had deserted him, and now he only felt a bit damp, and stupid.

Merlin nearly laughed. “What was that? Was that a proposal?”

“Yes, it was a  _ proposal _ , you utter--”

“Well, now you’re ruining it.”

“Well, I didn’t think there was anything to ruin, considering that tepid response.”

Merlin saw that he was hurt, and shut his laptop. “Arthur, I waited 900 years for you. Do you really think some piece of paper is going to change anything? I’m not going anywhere, obviously.”

“No, I don’t think it’s going to change anything, I just want...for other people to know. I don’t know. The formality of it--I just think--” He scrubbed a hand against the whiskers he had not shaved that morning, as if that would help his articulation. “I was married to a woman I couldn’t love in the way she deserved, and in the way I deserved, because I couldn’t--” He made a noise of frustration. “Because I couldn’t be with the one person I did love in that way. And I want a chance to do it properly this time.” He looked at the wall, feeling very hot.

Merlin slid into his line of sight, smiling. “That was all you had to say, you numpty.” 

Arthur tried to protest this, but had the protest kissed out of him, and then there was a lot of rolling about in the posh hotel sheets, and then a lot of gasping, and finally a mess for the poor maids. They did some naked telly watching, and had sex again. 

So they did not go back to the cottage in Altarnun, but took a flat in London, and had a little ceremony, which Merlin facilitated by forging a lot of documentation to show that certainly they were citizens of this modern metropolis, and Merlin, who thought he had been doing it for Arthur, found a warm satisfaction in being referred to as his husband, and beamed at random passersby who were not nearly so struck by the alteration of his title. They held hands in the shops, and were smiled upon or frowned at by little old women, depending upon their politics.

Arthur did not take to modern technology so well as Merlin, possibly because he had been thrust into it all at once, and sometimes answered his mobile upside down, or managed to turn the volume nearly all the way down, so that whilst he was saying exasperatedly, “Merlin,  _ Merlin _ , you deaf git” Merlin was shouting, “Arthur-- _ Arthur turn up your volume you lumbering stupid _ ” and then when they had sorted it there was a bit of a row over who was in the wrong for the name calling, and often the irritation segued into aggressive phone sex, and then it was quite awkward for whoever had to get on the tube in his delicate condition. 

Merlin was comfortably rich on account of having had so long to accumulate it, but as Arthur did not care to be idle, he set out to be gainfully employed, and finding that police work was now the closest career to knighthood, enrolled at the Peel Centre. Merlin was not entirely enthusiastic about this, since it improved Arthur’s chances of being shot or otherwise mangled by some rotter, though he did appreciate the uniform, and its enhancing abilities. 

In the spring of 2016, they were adopted by a kitten. Arthur felt very petulant about the whole thing, since Merlin seemed to like it better than him, and often cuddled up to it on the sofa, whilst Arthur had to sit by himself at the other end. In fact the kitten did not like him either, possibly because it sensed in him a rival for Merlin’s affections, and turned upon him a mocking eye whenever it had got the choice spot in Merlin’s arms. Privately Arthur was very suspicious of it, and thought perhaps it was Gwaine come back to challenge him; but publicly he had to at least make a show of getting on with it, because Merlin had called it ‘Noodle’ and you never can say a word against anything which has the double advantage of being fluffy, and being called ‘Noodle’.

The kitten had the unfortunate side effect of making Merlin even more irresistible to women, since he sometimes went out with it in a jumper pocket. It was not that Arthur, being an undeniable combination of blonde and handsome, did not have his own admirers. But Merlin had a non-threatening air that made him approachable, and his ears brought him within the grasp of mortal men, and suggested to an alarming number of people that they could have a go at him. This led to incidents like the one at their favourite Costa, in which Arthur, whilst perusing the pastries, endured for as long as he was able the tart barista unloading her full artillery on Merlin, and finally while she was committing the dual offense of giggling and touching the back of Merlin’s hand, blundered his way to the front of the queue and barked, “I see you’ve met my  _ husband _ , then” with such emphatic bitchiness the poor girl invented a new shade of red, and abruptly left her co-worker to complete their order.

“You didn’t have to be such a prat.”

“She was practically  _ licking  _ you, Merlin.”

“She was not, you jealous knob.” 

“I can’t believe there can exist so much  _ obtuseness  _ in one man.”

“I don’t know why, considering who’s talking. Anyway, you didn’t have to be so rude. You made her cry.”

“I did not make her cry,” Arthur protested, and seeing that he had, he threw several quid into the tip jar, feeling like a tosser.

After polishing off their coffee they decided to finish their argument over some fish and chips at a nearby pub where Arthur pretended his chips were too soggy so he could give them to Merlin, who was mad about them, and it was whilst rubbing his foot against Merlin’s shin and putting up a token fight, because they liked to argue, and make it up later, that he saw, coming into the pub, with their heads back in a good hard belly laugh, Lancelot and Gwen. He grabbed Merlin’s arm. “Merlin! Look! It’s Gwen and Lancelot!” He was half out of the booth. He was already prepared to fling himself onto Gwen when Merlin said, with such weariness in his voice, “No it isn’t, Arthur.”

He turned round at the hurt in it. “It’s them, Merlin,” he said with a wrinkled brow, but did not go toward them; there was something in Merlin’s eyes that held him back. There was a sadness that made them suddenly old. He was not any longer a young man, but an old one grieving the myriad losses which he continued to outlive. 

“Look again, Arthur.”

He did. Gwen was putting back her hair from her face; Lancelot had taken her coat. He saw in the movements a strange familiarity, and a stranger disconnect; there was a quality about them that made them like looking at something underwater, when it is less itself, and quivers from form to form. Gwen’s lips were thinner, and the hair a little less unruly; and Lancelot had got a different chin.

He sat down, because his legs willed it. Merlin put a hand over his. “It’s just how genetics are, sometimes. There’s a finite number of combinations. It all trickles down over the years. I found a Gwaine, once, about 200 years after you died. I was already hugging him when I realised his nose was all wrong, and his eyes were too small. He thought I was absolutely mental.”

Arthur stared at him. He had got something in his throat again, the way he often did when he looked at Merlin. “It must have been--” He could not finish. He looked down at the hand over his. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” And then he leant over the table to kiss Merlin, which he was still sometimes bashful about in public; but this was a lingering kiss, without any self-consciousness, and when he ended it, Merlin, with ketchup on his chin, beamed at him as if he had performed a feat equal to pulling Excalibur out of solid stone.

  
  
  


There is something left of Camelot, which is now called Tintagel Castle, in North Cornwall, on the peninsula of Tintagel Island. It was nearly two years before Arthur could bring himself to see it. On a blustery weekend, they drove down from London to the village of Tintagel where they took a room at The Cornishman Inn. The morning they paid their admission to the castle, there was a thin rain, which might better be classified as a mist, though at least the wind lay now quiet in its moorings. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Arthur?” Merlin asked through chattering teeth. Arthur took out the scarf he had crammed in his coat pocket, and handed it to him; Merlin was always forgetting his own. 

“I’m sure.”

But he lost the surety when he walked into the courtyard and saw the ancient stone. Time had come, as time will, and eaten it porous, and left its walls in lonely sentinel on the green hillsides of Cornwall. He could feel in its old bones something which called to him; but he did not recognise the shape of them. It was as if something beloved had put on a new face, and called to him with old and comforting voice. He had gone through the wooden door that led into the Great Hall, and there stopped. He saw all the countryside thriving where the Citadel no longer lived, and the walls that sometimes broke the uniformity of their greenness. He saw the waves with soft murmurings touch the rocks below, and draw back their foaming maws, with the land in them. 

“Arthur?” Merlin touched his shoulder. There was an absolute stillness in Arthur that frightened him. He thought perhaps the old ruins had done something irreparable to him. 

Arthur did not feel the hand on his shoulder. He was seeing the egg-shaped ruby of the stained glass window trickling onto the banquet table, and the defeated old walls, simultaneously. He was seeing his father. 

“Arthur?” Merlin said again, more loudly, and gripped his shoulder now.

Arthur blinked. He said, when he could be sure of getting his voice out in one piece, “Can I have a moment?”

And Merlin squeezing his shoulder went away, till he was needed. 

Arthur put his hands in his coat pockets. He stood as he had at the graveside of noble Sir Lancelot, whose lovely marker now was gone, trying to be brave for a people whom all other men had forgotten. He bore it, mostly. He bowed his head, and the stones beneath his feet blurred a little, and he felt in himself the hotness of sorrow when it has been suppressed, and means to burn its way free. There were some tourists passed him on the path, and in some curiosity lingered on this tall blonde who might have been some footballer or another, judging by his physique. He seemed to be looking at nothing, and was trying valiantly not to cry. They were not overly concerned with him; but it was a thing that took them for a moment from the display guides.

Perhaps if he had had on him the mail he died in, or Excalibur, which had gone into the lake and never come out; but he was only a young man in a black leather jacket and some tatty jeans, now, and they did not know.

He wiped at his nose before returning to Merlin, who sprang off the wall he had been leaning against. Merlin looked at Arthur for a long while; he said, “All right?” so that Arthur could reply, “Fine,” and then Merlin said, “You are not, you git” and put an arm round his shoulders. Arthur took offence, but did not remove the arm. 

They walked down to Merlin’s Cave and went through the opening into the slushy sand which the tide had just conceded; there was then a sudden lift in the rain, and the sun came through in one pointed shaft, like a spear, and shattered on the wall, so that all the gleaming specks of it fell about their feet. “Most people get the cave bit wrong, you know,” Merlin mused.

“What do you mean?”

“In the stories they say it was Nimueh trapped me in it. They didn’t get much right.” Merlin touched the stone, and cocked his head at it. He was seeing, like Arthur had in the courtyard, into the many pasts of it, and for a moment went out of the present. 

“Someone  _ trapped  _ you in this cave?” Arthur demanded in a tone of voice which suggested he was happy to fight them, immediately. 

“It was the king who brought Camelot to ruin. He ruled some hundred years after Gwen, I think. He didn’t like me; he didn’t like anyone more powerful than him. So he had me sealed up in here.” Merlin gave a soft smile, still looking at the stone. Arthur watched the smile turn his face fleetingly ancient, as if for a moment there was an exhausted old man who at last had broken the young and durable bones, to show his endless trials. 

“What happened, Merlin?” he asked quietly, wanting to touch the hand on the stone, and holding back, as he had spent so much of his short life holding back.

“I wasn’t in here long. They’d wounded me; I woke alone, in the darkness. I pulled the cave down round me. There used to be a lot more to it than this.” His eyes were drifting in some distant century; Arthur was nearly afraid to touch him. “They were still riding away, him and his men, when I came out. I brought the hillside down on them.” Now he looked into the present, into Arthur’s eyes, and his own were suddenly wet. “It was too late for Camelot, though. There was a civil war; he’d pitted his own Council against one another, the peasants were starving...I should have killed him sooner. I was tired. Gwen was gone. The Round Table was gone. Everything you’d fought for, Arthur, everything you’d died for...it was already destroyed. And I knew, by then, that everything went away, and I didn’t...it wouldn’t have mattered, what I did. Things are destined to leave. That’s what happens.”

Arthur did touch the hand now, where it lay cold on the wall, impaled by the afternoon sunlight. “You brought the hillside down on them?”

Merlin sniffed a little, and wiped at his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why were you ever content with being just a manservant?”

A little smile came to his face now; he wiped his nose again, with the scarf Arthur had given him, just to be difficult. “There was this prince.”

“He sounds handsome.”

“Mm.” Merlin shrugged. “He was all right. His teeth stuck out a little, like a horse.”

“A  _ horse _ ,” Arthur spluttered, in order to enlarge the smile, and nudged Merlin’s shoulder hard with his own. They smiled at one another. Merlin leant in to kiss him; it was only a soft thing, more breath than kiss. Arthur pressed their foreheads together, and was content there, with his eyes shut, and the breath of Merlin soft on his cheek. 

“Back to the hotel?” Merlin asked quietly, sliding his fingers into the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck.

“Back to the hotel,” Arthur confirmed.

  
  
  


Back at the hotel, Arthur slid into Merlin with an excruciating slowness. He grabbed Merlin by the hip, as if to brace him for a more significant pace, but only went on in that unbearable way, pulling nearly out before pushing back into him, his fingers digging into Merlin’s hip, as if there he could not restrain himself, whilst the slow and shuddering work of his own hips brought Merlin with a gasp to the edge of his tolerance. Then he pulled out, and nosed at Merlin’s neck, nipping it, and the grazing of his teeth went all the way into Merlin’s toes. “Arthur.  _ Arthur _ ,” he gasped, and was patient for as long as he could be, and then pushed back into Arthur, rubbing against him, trying to break Arthur’s will, or at least to wear it down.

Arthur slid the hand on Merlin’s hip up his side, in one shivery stroke, over his heaving belly, and feeling with the same excruciating languidness each trembling muscle before he reached down to grab Merlin, and then only circled his thumb for an unfair length of time over the tip of his cock, though it was nearly unbearable for him too, and his hips, almost of their own accord, had started to thrust him a little against Merlin’s back. He stroked Merlin in one smooth movement, not jerking but showing him how good it was to wait, building them both toward desperation, Merlin’s neck straining beneath his lips, his breath rattling as it came out, one hand groping blindly backward for Arthur’s hips, for something to clutch.

When he sensed Merlin was about to come, he stopped touching him, and against Merlin’s spine, so that Merlin could feel it whilst he shivered, and breathed hard into the pillow, stroked himself with the same unhurried rhythm, panting into the back of Merlin’s neck. 

He pushed into Merlin again; the warm body arched back into him, and Merlin let out a noise that lifted all the hairs on his neck. He kissed Merlin’s neck again, a little more sloppily this time. He kept the same agonizing pace, shakily, holding onto the hip now not for leverage, but to ground himself. There was a moment when he could hardly stand it, and had to flop his head back against the pillow. He felt round with the hand on Merlin’s hip, so he could chart every trembling muscle, every bit that was coming undone, sliding his fingers down one shaking thigh, over the chest, the hard nipples, onto the flexing throat, feeling Merlin tightening around him, the shivery whispering of this down his own spine. He wrapped one arm round Merlin’s waist, and kissed up the throat, onto his jaw, the corner of the mouth, grabbing again for Merlin, feeling with his thumb the slick tip of him, and then when the hips rolled back into him, losing his control, losing his sense, stroking hard this time, and biting at the pale shoulder, till he felt them both stiffening, till Merlin, biting at his own hand, had to take his mouth away from it, to whisper, “Arthur, oh God,  _ Arthur-- _ ”

Arthur with a long moan came in him, till there were stars in front of his eyes. And Merlin, feeling it, made another garbled try at saying his name, thrusting up into Arthur’s fist, and spurting hot inside of it, so long he almost ran out of the breath necessary to get through it. He came up almost off the bed, he tensed so hard; and then collapsed back down against Arthur.

“Payback,” Merlin panted out, when he was capable of it, “is a bitch.”

And when they were both sufficiently recovered, he showed Arthur the things he had learnt about patience in the last nine hundred years, and was not interested in anything like mercy, whilst Arthur shuddered under his mouth and hands, and tried to grab at the back of his head, to bring him down for a kiss, but kept him in hot expectation far longer than was humane, and only fucked him when Arthur begged for it. So that was very satisfactory, and due its reward. 

  
  
  


So they lived.

They did not acknowledge the fact that Merlin was immortal, and Arthur presumably was not, and that Merlin would have to do it all over again, some future year, when Time came for Arthur in the way that it came for everything.

I know it is a poor ending; it is the same as anything, a cyclical one. Humans are like that. We have always repeated ourselves, and never noticed our unoriginality, because we have died out ahead of it, whilst it is all still fresh. 

That is all right for a lifetime, but not for ten of them.

So poor Merlin was to end with the same dear body, still in his arms, and perhaps this time it was to be a little greyer, a little more lived-in. But still he would have to feel it go from him, whilst he was young, and never-ending.

A story is like life, and does not always have to be fair. But I think we can give some consolation after all.

They were getting ready one morning, Arthur for work, and Merlin for uni, which he had decided to attend for the hell of it, the way most immortals come to their decisions, when Arthur, tucking in his uniform shirt, suddenly leant in, squinting at him.

“What?” asked Merlin, a little self-consciously. He patted down his hair, which he had yet to brush.

“You have crow’s feet,” Arthur said.

“What? No, I don’t.”

And Arthur let out a laugh that frightened the cat, who careened off the bed, and through the door, throwing him an avenging look over its shoulder. He grabbed Merlin’s cheeks in his hands, and made him face the mirror on the wall over their chest of drawers. 

They were not obvious, and could only have been spotted by someone who perused the face with a keen and soppy fondness. But Merlin, having got them pointed out to him, could see them now too, faint but undeniably where they had not been before. He laughed the same laugh that had frightened the cat, and said, in a paroxysm of joy no one over twenty-five has ever felt upon the same subject, “Arthur, I’m ageing!” 

  
  
  


And they live still to this day in the London flat, waiting for Albion to need them. The cat still does not like Arthur; but it has learnt to tolerate him. Arthur is similarly ambivalent about the cat. 

Arthur is now a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, and a member of The Medieval Combat Society, where he is regularly subjected to ribbing on the subject of his marriage to a man called ‘Merlin’. He is still very amenable to small children who are curious about his sword. 

Merlin is a professor at Oxford, having tired of being lectured at, and deciding he ought to do the lecturing himself. He may have forged a bit more paperwork in order to secure the job; but that is hardly worth mentioning. 

On Fridays they play chess (though Merlin is still not comparable to Gwen), and watch Black Mirror. The cat presides.

So I think we may say it finally, without doing too much harm.

 

EXPLICIT LIBER REGIS QUONDAM

REGISQUE FUTURI

  
  


THE BEGINNING

 


End file.
